Master of Shadows
by The Phantom's Avenger
Summary: Erik wants the world to believe he is dead. With Christine gone, what will become of him? A week has passed and Christine finds herself torn between two different lives...until she discovers a single line in the newspaper. ERIK/CHRISTINE **Please read and review**
1. Chapter 1

Voices filled the catacombs, echoing from the stone walls and floors. Some two hundred armed men filled the darkest places of the opera house, torches and weapons in hand.

They didn't much care if they strung him up by the neck, impaled him, or tore him limb for limb; all that mattered was he died a cruel death at their hands.

_Track down this murderer he must be caught._

Meg Giry held the Phantom's mask in her trembling hands while the mob spread out through the deep places in the earth. By candlelight she studied the stark white leather, an article of myth and fear within the opera house.

She stood abruptly and turned back to the chair where the mask had been left. She knew he was still there, watching, waiting.

"Phantom?" she whispered softly. "Erik?" she tried.

Just as she expected, there was no reply—at least not from his voice. She stepped back and found an envelope tucked beneath the velvet cloth discarded at the base of the chair. With one glance around the room to ensure she was alone, she plucked up the note and tore open the seal.

_Ann,_

_One final act of kindness. Please tell the newspaper Erik is Dead._

"My God," she whispered.

_He was always dead._

She inhaled sharply, her head snapping up to the voice filling her ears. For a moment she wasn't sure it was real, but the curtain draped over the mirror rustled. In silence she folded the note and tucked it beneath her arm as several gendarmes entered.

"Mademoiselle?" they questioned in unison.

"There is no one," she said, her heart hammering. "He's disappeared."

"Our search will not end until he is dead," they assured her.

"Thank you," she replied awkwardly.

As soon as they turned, she ran toward the mirror and pulled the curtain aside, finding herself within a long, dark tunnel that curved into the distance. She held her breath, eyes straining in the dark.

"Did you hear them?" she whispered, her slight tone burgeoning with anger. "Did you hear what they said? They will not stop until you're dead."

She felt him there, standing behind her, his body almost pressed to hers. She paused, unsure of whether he would strangle her for intruding in his home or if he would mercifully allow her to go free. She decided not to tempt him.

"Meg Giry," he said softly, his voice distant, as though he stood a world away. It startled her, as she had sworn he stood only inches from her. "They shall never find me," he assured her. "And I was never alive."


	2. The Illusion

Christine Daae removed her jewelry and stood before her bedroom mirror. A week had passed since the unspeakable opera house incident, but every detail was burned into her mind. She could still smell the smoke from dozens of candles, the musty scent from the underground lake…the sweet smell of wine on his breath as he pleaded with her one last time.

_One love, one lifetime._

She clutched her hand over her pounding heart and immediately collapsed into a wooden chair, her breath stolen from her lungs. Passion and terror thrummed through her veins, each heartbeat a moment further from that last encounter.

Sunlight streamed through the open window, the breeze carrying the scent of roses from the garden below. A bitterly cold spring day did nothing to calm her nerves as the roses reminded her of a funeral and the cold air felt like a stab of night.

"Christine?"

Raoul's voice startled her and she twisted, finding him in the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching the doorframe.

He looked handsome as ever, blond hair pulled back, dressed in a beige waistcoat and off-white lawn shirt with brass cufflinks. He still made her heart stutter when he smiled at her, adored her when she didn't deserve his affection.

"It's beautiful here," she said.

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze filled with sadness. "You're thinking of him again."

His voice lacked anger, but still she shook her head. "Raoul, please…"

"Christine, I brought you here to recover," he said gently.

"I'm trying," she said meekly, her words a bitter lie.

All of the years she'd known him he'd been gentle and kind, always looking out for her. He wanted to rescue her—he _had_ rescued her—but she found herself struggling to return to the same nightmare.

"Little Lotte," he said quietly as he came to her and set his hands on her shoulders. He looked at her in the mirror, met her forlorn eyes. Concern plagued his bright blue eyes and she pitied him. She loved him, but not as much as he deserved.

She looked up at him as he tenderly kissed her forehead, his lips soft and warm. He would do anything she asked of him; sleep beside her every night, or a room away. She had chosen the latter and he had accepted without complaint.

"Stay with me," she whispered, clutching his hand. "Just for a moment longer."

Perhaps he sensed her heart wrenching within her chest, unsettled by her decision. He looked at her reflection and shook his head. "Rest."

"Raoul?" she questioned.

He stepped back from her, turned on his heel, and walked toward the door. Before he disappeared, she stood and gave chase, meeting him in the hall.

"Will you tell me when you are unhappy?" he asked with his back to her.

They had only been away for a week, she wanted to tell him, only seven days away from Paris and the only life she'd known. Hours of singing and dancing had turned to endless days of waiting impatiently for life to start. The details were missing, her existence void of a rigorous schedule, a performer's life.

She'd grown accustomed to the stage lighting, the dark wings, the empty orchestra pit. Illusions of props and scenery had been her world, not the rolling countryside with its servants doting on her every need. Her reality was a fraud filled with danger, angst, and song. This reality was sheep grazing in the distance and tea served exactly at eight in the morning.

"You have been so kind to me," she said. "So patient."

"Christine," he said suddenly. He looked at her from over his shoulder, his blue eyes sharp and clear, almost scolding. "That wasn't my question."

She held her breath and nodded, remembering her time on the stage, the life before this one.

"I am very happy," she said as she wrapped her arms around him, felt his stomach tighten at her touch. "Very happy to have you."


	3. Amongst Vermin

Time barely existed. Day turned to night; dusk gave way to dawn. The sun faded, rain clouds gathered, and people passed by while Erik remained unnoticed. Women guided their Johns into the alley, pleasured them for trivial amounts of money. He'd heard every grunt and groan of satisfaction, felt emptier than he'd ever imagined.

_This face has also denied me the joys of the flesh._

Tucked within an abandoned building, he didn't have the strength to move. He hadn't eaten in days or bothered to search for water. His breathing turned labored, his eyes heavy and blurred. Hiding seemed useless, though he preferred dying alone and unnoticed than being beaten and hanged.

He had no idea if anyone still searched for him, but his heart still beat wildly any time he heard footsteps pound down the alley.

Within the opera house, no one had bothered to search for him—until the end. Eyes closed, he tilted his head back and rested it against the inner wall. Rats scratched and squeaked through the cracks in the floors and holes punched in the walls. The place smelled of vermin and urine, but he'd grown accustomed to the stench.

This would be his tomb, where some hapless vagrant would find his rotting corpse.

With nothing to do but think, he realized all of his terrible mistakes. No amount of begging Christine to love him, pleading for her forgiveness, or preparing her for his appearance would have gained her affection. Her curiosity had ruined him, though deep inside he suspected she would recoil.

His face was not easily shared. The thought made him double over in anguish as he wondered what would have happen if he hadn't returned her to the opera managers. Perhaps if he had kept her a while longer in his underground lair, her opinion would have been different. Perhaps if he had imprisoned her for weeks at his side, she would have seen him differently.

His thoughts were pure madness, he realized. Genius was not enough. No amount of song could fill her heart the way she deserved. Young, vibrant, and beautiful, she craved the affection of a man who mirrored her inside and out.

The revelation did little to ease his aching heart.

Hands balled into fists, he willed his body to slow down, for the rapid beat of his heart to pause.

The floorboards in the hall creaked and his eyes popped open, his body stiff and alert. He placed his palms against the dirty floor and felt bits of rubble and rat droppings under his fingers. Disgusted, he wiped his hands on his trousers and held his breath, waiting to be discovered, waiting to fight.

A silhouette lingered in the doorway, short and slender…feminine. He blinked, Christine's name on the tip of his tongue.

"Anyone?" another woman asked.

This voice he recognized, but he couldn't decide if he was relieved or angered.

"Yes," Meg Giry said.

"Alive?" Madame Giry questioned.

Meg squatted in front of him, her hands resting on her knees as she studied his face. He turned away, protecting her from his wicked visage.

"Yes, he is," Meg answered softly, as though the tone of her voice would somehow change his fate.

She reached into her cloak, then extended her hand and placed something onto his knee. He glanced down, his lips parting when he saw the stark white mask.

Immediately he snatched it up and fit it into place before he met her eye. She stared at him, her expression blank.

Madame Giry stepped into the room and thumped her cane on the rotting wooden floorboards.

"They're still looking for you," she stated, her voice as firm and unwavering as when she ordered dancers around the theater. "Moved onto brothels and into the slums."

In other words, they were closing in on him.

Madame Giry pulled out a piece of paper and tossed it down beside him. "It has been done," she said.

He looked at the crumpled paper and recognized his own penmanship. Meg stood and stepped away, wringing her hands as her mother stormed forward.

"One final act of kindness?" Madame said through her teeth.

He shuddered at her tone, at the growl in her voice as she stood over him, waiting for him to respond.

She lifted her cane and he froze, fully expecting her to rattle his brain. Shoulders hunched, he turned away from her and inhaled sharply.

"Stand," she ordered. "No more of this…this foolishness."

He hesitated, glancing up to meet her stern, unwavering gaze. She scowled at him, leaving him no choice but to do as she demanded. Once he saw her lean forward, cane still raised above her head, he decided not to challenge her.

Once he stood, she slammed the end of her cane into the wall behind him and he heard rats scramble away, screeching in protest.

"Filthy vermin," she scowled. "Your time of living amongst rodents has ended."

"Has it?" he dared to question.

She looked up at him and studied his face. "It should have ended long ago," she replied. "Follow Meg."

"Where?" he asked.

"Somewhere better than this."

Eyes lowered, Erik felt he had no other choice but to follow.


	4. Mourning and Adventure

Raoul de Chagny remembered every detail of his father's death. He had been sixteen at the time, a young man of good breeding and fine education. He'd been away at school, his days spent in rigorous studies, his evenings shared with the other young men within the dormitories and a headmaster who allowed no one to speak after dark.

He'd learned a great deal of patience in his youth, especially while away at school. Silence didn't bother him, nor did following stringent rules.

It had been past dark when the headmaster burst into the men's dormitory and stalked toward his bed. He stood there, gray hair slicked back, wrinkled face unsmiling.

"Come with me, de Chagny," he ordered.

Barefoot, he'd followed behind the headmaster to his study in the dormitory loft. He remembered how cold the room felt, the air stuffy and unmoving like a tomb.

Once they were both seated, the headmaster cradled his head in his hands and sighed. "You are to leave at once," he said.

Raoul stared back, unblinking, confused by the demand. "I have nowhere to go," he stammered. "I don't have my shoes."

"Your belongings will be packed for you," the headmaster assured him.

"Have I done something wrong?" he asked. Out of some three hundred young men, he'd been the only one without so much as a tardy to class. He couldn't imagine what he had done to deserve being tossed out of school in the middle of the night.

The headmaster stood and planted his hands on the desk, his visage pinched with a sneer. He loomed over Raoul, tall and gaunt, his features lengthened by the shadows.

"Your father is dead," he stated without a hint of emotion. "Your mother lacks access to his funds. When and if this issue is resolved, you may return."

Raoul sat back, his mouth agape. His exile from school was a matter of money. There were no condolences offered, no moment allowed to soak up the bitter information shoved at him.

"Dead?" he gasped. "How? When?"

The headmaster lifted his chin. "Stabbed to death. Three nights ago."

With that, he was allowed to retrieve his shoes while his belongings were tossed haphazardly into his trunk and loaded onto a carriage. He never returned to the school and for the life of him couldn't recall the headmaster's name.

He did, however, with boundless clarity, remember being ushered away in a time of weighted sorrow. The world loomed over him, his heart heavy, his body fighting off illness churning in his gut.

Six months had passed since he'd seen his father and as he neared the estate, he realized he'd never see him again. Once he arrived at his widowed mother's side, there was no opportunity to mourn. With his older brother away with the military, it was his duty as the man of the house to push aside his sorrow and see to his father's burial.

Duties were handed over without explanation. He was expected to stand in his father's shoes and make the decisions for the household—most of which he never knew existed. It felt like chasing a wild horse, running as fast as he could, but never fast enough to catch up.

Unbeknownst to anyone but his mother, the Comte de Chagny had left a hefty sum of money to support the arts, mainly out of his respect for an old and dear friend, the famous Gustav Daae.

They had spent several summers enjoying the seashore where Raoul had first met the violinist's daughter. He'd frightened her with tales of trolls, spoiled her with sweets, and kissed her in the attic. At the age of five, he proposed to her by candlelight, professing he would never love a girl as much as he loved her.

_Little Lotte, thought of everything and nothing._

But the world worked with cruel irony. Gustav Daae died penniless after a long illness that kept him confined to bed for almost a year. His only child was sent off to the opera house at the age of seven. Years passed and he never forgot his proposal—though his older brother made certain of reminding him.

Eleven years later, in the home of a dead benefactor, Christine Daae was lost in mourning.

When he looked at her, he saw nothing but sadness and recalled his own heartache. At a time when he wanted nothing more than to weep for his loss, he was tending to his father's duties rather than his memory.

Christine was no different. He had asked her to marry him once and she had said yes. Now, despite the ring she wore around her neck, he wasn't sure she was ready to be a bride. Not now, perhaps not ever.

~o~

Everywhere Christine roamed, she felt the servants watching her as she explored the sprawling estate. Since Raoul had first whisked her away from the opera house to the chateau, his staff had scrutinized her every move.

A full staff at her disposal proved awkward instead of luxurious. No one had ever served her tea or presented supper to her, and when she blushed furiously, they looked at her oddly.

"What an odd woman the vicomte entertains," she heard them whisper down the hall.

"They said she was a dancer turned to a famous soprano."

"A dancer? That shy thing?"

"Who cares what she was? I hear her dance her way into the vicomte's bed nightly."

The maids gasped and shrieked with delight. "Nightly?"

"Yes, yes, she is a little tart, that one, so doe-eyed and innocent during the day, but my, what a vixen at night. Have you seen how tired she looks?"

They continued to whisper and gossip, but Christine couldn't bear to listen a moment longer. She walked into the estate solarium and breathed in the fragrant, humid air.

No one would have believed her, but she hadn't shared the vicomte's bed. She had barely slept in her own as the shadows called to her, beckoned her to the window where she stood for hours and waited, listening to the crickets, waiting for the familiar voice that had always lulled her to sleep.

Even though Raoul had offered to keep her company during the day, she shook her head and begged him to continue his business affairs while she walked the grounds in silence.

A soft tap on the solarium door garnered her attention and she jumped, whirling around. A young, mousy looking girl with a long nose and black hair stared back at her with a dull expression and pale, unexpressive eyes.

"The vicomte asked for you to join him, Mademoiselle. Lunch is served."

Christine's eyes widened. "He has returned?"

"He never left this morning," the servant replied.

She left the solarium and walked down the hall toward the dining room where Raoul sat at the head of the table.

"Are you hungry?" he asked as he stood and helped her into her seat, his fingers gently brushing her shoulders.

She'd lost her appetite, but she couldn't deny his company. At a time when she needed friendship and patience he'd given her both.

"I wasn't expecting you to stay home," she said as creamy soup and a basket of bread was set on the table by a silent maid dressed in black.

Raoul shrugged. "Business matters can wait."

She glanced at him, then reached for a piece of bread and broke off a chunk. The servants talked behind his back and thought of him as far too charitable. She couldn't imagine the rumors swirling around his estate if he'd cancelled business meetings on her behalf.

"I thought tomorrow we would go on an adventure," he said, waggling his eyebrows playfully.

She couldn't help but smile. "What sort of adventure?"

He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin and cleared his throat. "A secret adventure."

"Honestly?" Her eyes widened. "Not even a hint?"

"No, not even a hint."

"But…why?" she asked.

He ate in silence for a moment before lifting his gaze and looking wistfully into her eyes. "It's been over a week since I've seen you smile, Christine, genuinely smile. If secret adventure awakens your heart, then so be it."

She sat back and stirred her soup. Any other woman would have easily fallen in love with him from the moment he smiled in her direction. Perhaps what she needed was a secret adventure to awaken her at last, give her a life outside of darkness.


	5. Nothing Owed

Erik dried his hair and face with a soft, warm towel and looked at his reflection in the steam-covered mirror. Distorted, the image staring back at him seemed more tolerable. He squinted, seeing a man rather than a monster.

With a frown, he wiped the towel across the glass and revealed the truth. The visage staring back at him, eyes cold and green, lips a hard, straight line, features pinched—he hated that person.

That terrible creature should have been dead. That miserable beast, that thing always lurking in shadows, he should have never been born.

His chest tightened and he stumbled from the haze into his small, dimly lit room and dressed in silence. For years he had never felt truly alone, as melodies came easily to him. While he read in the evening, an unfinished tune wrapped its way into his mind until he tossed the book aside and obeyed his muse. He'd been a slave to music, but now his muse had left him.

There was nothing left for him to savor; no music in his mind, no Christine to share his love.

He would have died for her…and he was still willing to die for her.

A soft tap on the bedroom door interrupted his thoughts. In several quick strides, he unlocked the door and opened it half an inch, finding Meg Giry standing outside in the hall.

"Supper," she said plainly.

"I have no desire to eat," he replied, making certain he remained hidden behind the door.

She didn't look prepared for an argument. "My mother said you are expected to sit with us regardless of whether you eat."

His lips parted at her bold assumption. No one issued him orders or requested his company. He cleared his throat and straightened his spine, prepared to tell her she was mistaken, but Meg pushed the door further open.

She looked him over as he stood in fresh trousers and a lawn shirt, which he hadn't bothered to button all the way. He stepped back, feeling oddly exposed and uncomfortable in her presence. He was not a creature meant to be viewed by daylight.

Turning away, he covered the right side of his face with his hand and strode toward the dresser mirror. He saw her reflection behind him, her hands linked before her, eyes searching the small confines he'd been given.

With trembling hands he recovered his mask and fumbled to fit the contoured leather into place.

"I did not tell you to enter here," he gruffly mumbled.

Meg ignored his words. She walked further into the room, her steps light, which he expected from a dancer.

He'd watched her a hundred times before, though she had most likely never known he loomed within shadows, guarding all that he considered his within the theater. Because of his ties to Madame, he considered Meg somewhat personal property.

She turned as though she knew his thoughts. Perhaps property wasn't the correct phrasing. He considered her worthy of his attention, a young girl defenseless to the roving eyes and rough hands of drunken men employed by the theater.

Too many times he'd seen a young dancer led away from the rest of the chorus girls. Far too many times he'd heard a man shush a girl's screams, his grunts consuming her protests.

Meg had survived unscathed. No man entered her apartments or watched her in the dressing room. He'd made certain over the years—especially once she began drawing more attention from the stagehands and old, crude patrons hiding their lust behind smiles and fine clothing—that she was kept safe.

He owed her nothing more.

"What do you want?" he asked coldly.

"From you?" she asked, glaring at him. "You have done more than enough, Monsieur, enough for a lifetime."

"Then why are you here?"

"Misfortune," she answered snidely. "My mother's charity."

He lifted his chin, aggravated by her words. "Charity?"

"Generosity? Does that term suit you better?" She placed one hand on her hip and looked him up and down. "Delivered here against my will to aid you once more, remedy your wrongdoings."

His lips parted, but he had no reply.

"You will never find a place in the world, will you?" she questioned bitterly. "Never step into society. We are your true mask, your identity to the rest of the world. What are you?"

He swallowed hard. "Thembroux," he said softly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The stagehand," he answered. "Man in his forties, always stunk of tobacco and cheap wine."

"You describe half the theater," she said with a humorless laugh.

"He fathered children with half the women in the theater, Mademoiselle," he snapped. "Four years ago, when seven of the dancers left unexpectedly. He was the reason."

Her face paled, eyes narrowed. "You speak madness."

"Do I?"

"Why should I believe you?"

Erik tensed, angered by her words though he knew she should have been wary of him. Anyone with sense would have carefully picked apart his words.

"When his attention turned to you, he disappeared," he replied as he turned away from her.

"You lie."

"He followed you after the last performance of The Marriage of Figaro," he explained with his back still turned to her. He could still see the stagehand stalking after Meg, his expression twisted, lust in his eyes like a lion in pursuit of a lamb. "The entire night he watched you from the flies, muttered to Sesier what he would do when he had you to himself."

Meg was somewhat of a prize to him, as he'd never managed to come near her. Thembroux was too much of a drunk and a fool to realize his path had been purposely barred, that he was called away to duty because the Phantom demanded he leave.

With all the commotion for Mozart, the halls and dressing areas filled with patrons, costume designers, dancers, and various ticketholders wandering about, no one would have noticed a single dancer missing.

No one but a shadow would have keenly observed a young blond weaving her way from the rest, her every step followed.

She inhaled sharply and held her hand over her throat. "He never spoke to me," she argued, though her voice remained quiet.

Erik offered a cold laugh. "He had no intention of speaking to you then," he replied. "He would have covered your mouth, ripped through your skirts, and forced your legs apart. He would have had you, Mademoiselle, taken you until you wished for death."

"Do you speak of what you know?" she asked, her voice meek.

He watched her from the corner of his eye. Over the years she had startled at the sound of his name, of the way the dancers and chorus girls whispered _the phantom is coming_. She had known him better than most, as was the relation between him and her mother.

For her to question him in such a manner seemed almost undignified. Perhaps she worried of being in a small loft with him sleeping only a room away. Perhaps she worried of his control.

"If I had wished to force myself upon you, Meg Giry, no one in the theater would have stopped me," he reminded her. "You would have been no different than the rest."

At last he turned to face her. She visibly swallowed and took a step back from him as though she expected him to leap out and accost her right there.

"No one would stop me now, either, but I am not a man of such crude nature," he said smoothly. "Despite my appearance, I am not a monster."

Her distrust in him burned, the shame he felt sharper than he'd imagined. Always in shadows, he had kept his distance, always respectful, constantly a gentleman despite the rumors.

"I did not say you were a monster," she said defensively.

"Then what are you saying, Mademoiselle?"

"Why was I different?" she asked him, meeting his eye at last.

He regarded her a moment. He wanted much less needed anything from her.

Inhaling, he turned away. "You were no different," he admitted. Avoiding her gaze made it easier to speak. "Your name saved you, nothing more."

"Then our charity is matched," she replied, each word bitten off in anger.

"You owe me nothing," he said quietly. "You never did."

He waited a moment for her to reply before he stalked from the small room and into the hall. Madame met him outside the door and stepped in his path.

"Thembroux?" she questioned, cocking a brow.

He offered a single nod, knowing he should have expected her there. No matter how alone he thought he was within the opera house, Madame Giry was never far. She may have said little, but he felt her disapproving gaze upon him.

"What became of him?" Madame asked, forgoing any sort of proper greeting.

"From what I understand, he lost his ability to father children," he answered without a hint of emotion.

She turned her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. "You heard this?"

"No," he replied sharply. "I saw it."

Some would have considered the drunken fool fortunate he left the theater with his life.

Madame's eyes widened and she swallowed. She held his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment, but he refused to look away. He had done nothing wrong and no one would convince him otherwise.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched to the dining room.

Erik exhaled, feeling he had no choice but to follow. Silence, he knew, would drive him mad.


	6. Sanctuary

"Just a hint."

Raoul de Chagny chuckled softly to himself as Christine sat beside him in the carriage. His brown overcoat and chocolate colored cravat brought out his blue eyes."Absolutely not."

"Why must this be kept a secret?" she huffed as she offered a playful smile.

"You're fortunate I didn't blindfold you, Little Lotte," he said in a low growl.

Christine suppressed an unexpected shiver. His words tightened her muscles, made her inhale and hold a wicked breath. She swallowed hard to the thought of black satin covering her eyes, the knot carefully tied at the back of her skull. Her womb clenched with the fantasy of the unknown where she relied on her sense of hearing, smell…touch.

My God, she wanted him to touch her—but she had left _him_ behind.

The primal reaction caught her by surprise, and when she looked at Raoul, who sat like a perfectly trained gentleman at her side, she wondered if she had misheard him. She also realized he hadn't been the man she had pictured in her mind.

"My apologies," Raoul said when she didn't respond verbally. "That was crude of me."

She forced a smile. "You meant no harm."

He slid his hand over hers. "Trust me when I say to you, I would never hurt you, I mean it with all my heart."

Christine felt fairly certain Raoul de Chagny was incapable of hurting anyone, despite his military background. Even when he set out to rescue her, he'd done so as a perfect gentleman. There were no sharp edges to him; he was a man of carefully rounded corners, safe in every way inside and out.

He sat up straighter suddenly and squeezed her hand. "Here," he said with a wide smile as he looked past her out the window. "Our adventure."

She followed his gaze out the window to a large solarium with an exotic array of foliage and bright, colorful flowers peering out from the moist glass windows.

Brow furrowed, she waited until the carriage came to a stop and he helped her from the cab. The air smelled of heady soil and spring flowers, the sun so bright it made her eyes water.

"Where are we?" she questioned.

"The sanctuary," he said over his shoulder as he led her toward a stone fence with a crooked wooden gate on rusted hinges.

"I don't understand."

"Birds," he said.

They passed through the gate and toward the entrance where two young men stood waiting.

"The Vicomte de Chagny?" one man questioned.

"And Mademoiselle Daae," he replied.

Both men nodded and smiled. The taller gentleman on the left with carefully combed back black hair offered a bow. "Right this way, please."

He held open the door, showing them a curtain of wooden beads. Beyond the divider, which swayed thanks to a fan above them, tropical plants crowded the entrance, the large fronds quivering in the fan's gentle breeze. The sound of birds created a gentle, intriguing melody.

She couldn't help but think of _him_.

"Raoul, what is this?" she whispered, attempting to block him from her thoughts.

"A sanctuary," he said as he guided her inside. "For songbirds, mostly."

They passed through the beaded curtain and into the humid, glass sanctuary where large, metal cages housed dozens of colorful, singing birds. Water flowed from a fountain in the center, a splash of symphony to the many singers vying for attention.

Her lips parted as she stared at the beauty around her, the lush green foliage and brightly colored feathers of dozens and dozens of birds. They walked along a wide stone path and studied the placards naming the species and origin of each avian.

"How did they get here?" she questioned as they strolled toward the next exhibit.

"Some were wounded," Raoul explained.

"By what?"

"Other birds, hunters…illnesses," Raoul explained. "Can you imagine these poor creatures unable to survive in the wild with predators hunting them down? Monsieur de Chantel arranged for their capture and release into his sanctuary."

She could imagine a poor creature being hunted down, searching for a sanctuary far from predators. A warbler fluttered onto a perch in front of her, its small, beady eyes staring her down before it flew away.

"He has a skylark missing a wing," Raoul said. "He didn't sing for almost a year."

"Why is that?"

Raoul frowned. "They sing mostly as they fly," he answered.

"He'd lost his reason to sing," she said morosely.

They walked toward another large enclosure housing yellow finches. The birds darted back and forth, tweeting and protesting as they took turns in their birdbath.

"But," Raoul said suddenly. "He found another skylark that kept mostly to the ground and the two of them cause quite the racket, Monsieur de Chantel has told me."

_You alone can make my song take flight._

Christine stared blankly at the finches, her heart thudding wildly as she thought of the grounded skylark and the birds seeking a sanctuary. She wondered if Raoul saw her as the helpless little bird, so fragile and in need of protection. She wondered if he had brought her here as proof of his loyalty and desire to keep her safe, to build her a sanctuary.

She wondered if he ever considered another bird of song, one who would never be taken in and offered peace—one forever grounded and alone.

One who would never, ever sing again or find a voice for his song.

"Quite the love story between birds, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," she said blankly.

Her songbird's love story had gone unfinished. She had left him.

"Has this upset you?" Raoul asked suddenly.

Christine blinked and realized she'd suddenly froze, her hands tightly balled into fists, her body rigid. "No, no, I'm fine."

"You've gone pale." He clutched her arm and searched her face. "Sit a while."

"No, I would like to see the others," she protested.

"Just for a moment."

She started to argue, but the genuine concern in his eyes kept her silent. He had abandoned his business affairs in order to spend the day caring for her.

"You're right," she said at last.

He smiled and nodded, appearing more relieved than triumphant. With great care he ushered her toward a stone bench near the fountain and sat beside her.

"You know, I have always wanted to visit this sanctuary," he said. "I'm afraid I never made this a priority…until now. I've never seen anything so beautiful," he said as he looked toward her and smiled.

"This is a beautiful place," she agreed, feeling herself blush.

He made her heart flutter rather than pound, her thoughts swirl in her mind rather than come to a complete halt. He offered his love to her rather than demanded her affection.

"Then why are you so sad?" he questioned.

Christine kept her gaze focused on two macaws preening themselves. "For them," she lied. "For what they have endured."

Raoul studied her in silence for a moment. "At least they're not alone."

They may not have been alone, however, another creature had suffered much worse than any of these birds…and he would die unnoticed, his songs unsung.

The thought sent a chill through her. She swore she had made the correct choice, and yet now—surrounded by dozens of chirping birds and the melody of the fountain—she wasn't as certain.

"They have a café and more birds outside," Raoul said gently. "We'll enjoy lunch together and return home," he suggested.

Their eyes met and she nodded.

He was a good man, she told herself, a gentleman with noble intentions. When he stood and offered his hand, she accepted and graced him with a careful smile.

Music would never consume him. Her voice didn't draw him in, create a bond between them. Raoul de Chagny had loved her much longer than she had ever known, and with each glance and smile, he promised to love her for a lifetime.

"This was a beautiful adventure," she said.

"Good." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her softly. "One of many, I hope."

"Yes," she said. She leaned toward him and closed her eyes, feeling his soft, warm lips against her forehead. "One of many," she echoed.

But inside she said _perhaps _rather than yes…and she hoped he had a darker side, a more satisfying side of satin blindfolds and mystery, of power and demands.

She wanted more than tenderness and affection—and that realization made her weak and uncertain, a song bird caged by regret.


	7. The Obituary

"Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

Madame Giry sat at the head of the table with Erik to her left and Meg to her right. There seemed to be more food than necessary on the table, but he didn't argue or complain.

The small dining room was cozy, the fabric walls patterned with flowers against a crème background. Embroidered place mats with fine silver graced the table and he wondered how Madame and her daughter had paid for such a nicely furnished flat, especially on short notice.

Even without looking at Meg he could still feel her glaring at him, and even though he wanted to think her opinion meant nothing to him, the flat was entirely too small to ignore one of the only two people he knew.

Meg, however, seemed to feel as though ignoring him were not only an option but a preference.

"Do you remember that little theater across the street from the Nesier?" Meg asked. The sun was at her back, peering through the small dining room window as dusk fell over Paris.

Erik looked up from his soup, startled by her voice. Meg stared at her mother, her gaze not once wavering to acknowledge him. The room was small—or cozy as Madame had described it to him, far too intimate to completely close out one person.

"Yes, of course," Madame said. "Why do you ask?"

"They're hiring dancers," Meg answered. "I considered auditioning next Tuesday."

Erik vaguely knew the theater she'd mentioned as he'd passed the unassuming building tucked in between a bakery, a hat shop, and a few cafes and public houses.

With no parents or guardians, he'd roamed the alleys and shadows at night, snatched bread and sweets from bakery trays, lifed shoes and hats from carts during evening deliveries. He knew the city well enough.

The place Meg referred to had seemed relatively busy whenever he passed at night, patrons outside smoking and carrying on in between acts. He wasn't quite sure what sort of dancers they employed as he'd always thought of their acts as bawdy.

"Ah, yes," Madame said, sounding distracted as she reached for her wine. She kept her gaze trained on her glass and the merlot swishing around like the deep red eye of a storm. "Dancers, musicians, and a whole ensemble from what I read in the newspaper. Perhaps they would even consider works by a new composer."

Meg scoffed. "They already outlined their next two seasons," she pointed out.

"There is always next year." Madame shrugged and glanced at Erik. "Always room for talent."

"They're only accepting three new dancers," Meg interrupted. "I wonder if I would be accepted."

Her mother shrugged. "You've worked your entire life for your career," she said. "They would be fortunate to have you. Besides, they will recognize the name Giry, no doubt about that, my dear."

Meg ate in silence for a moment, stirring her soup as she managed to find the fabric wall of more interest than daring to look across the table.

"I want to be accepted because I am a good dancer, not because of my name," Meg replied at last.

"You cannot help who you are," Madame said absently.

Erik set his spoon on the edge of his plate and took a deep breath. For years he'd strived to go about his life unseen, but this was different. She refused to acknowledge him and he tired of being a ghost in the open.

He watched her a moment, wondered why she had searched for him in the catacombs but now wanted nothing to do with him. Perhaps her mother had sent her and she regretted being ordered around.

"I think you'd be accepted based on your talent," Erik said suddenly.

Meg slowly lifted her gaze and stared blankly at him. She took a careful sip of wine and he assumed she would simply look away and continue to ignore him.

"Ah, so you are now an expert on ballet, Monsieur?" she questioned.

"An observation," he muttered, regretting his attempt at complimenting her. "Nothing more."

"I don't need your observations," she replied as she slammed her wine glass on the table.

"I never said you did," he countered.

"Then why do you bother speaking?" she snapped.

"Then what do you want? Your mother's assurance that you will be accepted into their dance troupe and continue your career? How many performances have you seen there? What sort of dances do they perform to entertain their crowd?" He growled, his voice raising as he climbed to his feet and stared down at her.

Madame lifted her chin and looked sternly from Erik to Meg. "I would rather eat in silence than listen to the two of you argue."

"I didn't start this," Erik said under his breath as he collapsed into his seat and looked away.

Meg snorted. "This may very well be the first disaster you didn't have a hand in it."

He slammed his fist onto the table and Meg jumped, color draining from her complexion. Wide eyes stared back at him, her expression filled with horror at his sudden outburst.

Frustrated, he pushed his chair back and prepared to storm from the dining room and into his own dark, solitary space, but Meg stood first.

"Both of you sit," Madame ordered.

After attempting to ignore him during supper, Meg refused to look away. She stared him down in a way no one had dared to do in a very long time. Despite his trepidation, he couldn't help but be somewhat impressed by her bold nature. He'd always thought of her as a shrieking child, but she showed as much gumption as her mother.

"I don't need or want your charity," he snapped, his words directed at Meg.

"Without our charity, where in the hell would you be?" Meg snarled in return.

"Dead," he answered without missing a beat. "Dead and rotting in hell."

Silence consumed the dining room and he wasn't sure who was more shocked by his revelation; Madame Giry, who remained seated, Meg, who stood with her lips parted, or himself for his brutal honesty.

"I left and expected to disappear," he said when no one else spoke. He took a step back, his heart thudding wildly. "You shouldn't have come looking for me."

Meg turned her attention toward her mother as though she expected an explanation. Madame folded her napkin and sighed, her lips forming a deep set frown.

"You wished to perish in a slum?" she questioned at last. "Die alone and disgraced?"

He owed her no answers. He didn't owe anyone an explanation of what he wanted. No one would understand how he had existed for years, the turmoil he'd experienced throughout his life.

"Is that what you wanted?" Madame questioned forcefully.

"I wished to be left alone," he replied, his tone matching hers.

She grunted. "Alone yet again."

There was no other choice, especially not now, especially after all that had transpired. The gendarmes would be on the lookout for a masked stranger for weeks yet, possibly months. They would seek their revenge—and he assumed they would eventually find him.

The vicomte de Chagny knew the dreadful secrets of a disfigured monster had been kept safe by Madame Giry. Even though the vicomte most likely had fled Paris, he assumed the gendarmes were aware of the relation between Madame and the Phantom. In time they would seek her out, question her, and possibly find him.

Now that a week had passed since the disaster, he felt as though he deserved to be found.

"Did you put my…" he hesitated, unsure if he could truly say the words.

"Obituary in the paper?" Madame said on his behalf.

He nodded, conflicted by grief and elation. Perhaps if he were dead to Paris he could live again, rise from the ashes like some twisted Phoenix. He should have been dead long ago, he thought, or more precisely he should have never taken his first breath.

"The obituary runs in three days," Madame answered casually. "As you requested."

He hoped at last this would bring about a sense of peace, though deep inside he already knew he would never find a sanctuary. Beneath the opera house had been one cage, a lonely yet masterful kingdom he had built himself. Now he lived within another cage, one where he couldn't quite escape. There he could live in misery and regret or step outside and into custody of the authorities.

The choice between the scorpion and the grasshopper, he mused.

"Does this please you?" Madame asked with a touch of venom in her words.

"This suits me," he corrected.

Nothing would ever please him again, especially with Christine gone from his life. He wished he had called out her name when she turned from him and left with her fiancé. He wished he had pleaded with her, asked for a moment of her time in order to prove his worth.

Regret knifed through him, nearly buckled his knees. His stomach churned and he held his breath, waiting for the swell of emotion to at last settle again. All of the years of his life had passed him by, useless and forgotten.

Madame's face paled. "What are you doing?" she asked, sounding frantic as though she fully suspected he silently schemed before her eyes.

Erik took a step back and turned from them, wondering how he would spend his last three days before his final act.

Meg and her mother exchanged wary glances once Erik exited the dining room and shut the door behind him.

"He's up to something," Meg said under her breath. Fear settled within her, which she attempted to push away. He'd been nothing but a nuisance, a plague like the vermin crawling beneath the opera house. She didn't want to feel sorry for him; in fact she wanted to feel indifference, if not pure hate.

"Yes." Her mother frowned and sighed. "The obituary," she said softly.

Meg felt herself shudder, an undeniable sensation of pure dread. "What about the obituary?"

Her mother pushed her chair back and clasped her hands in her lap. She looked tired and defeated, a shadow of the ballet instructor she had been.

"Mother?" Meg questioned.

Mother Giry wiped the tears from her eyes and inhaled sharply. "You don't know what he's been through," she sniffled. "What hardships he's endured, what cruelty he's experienced in his lifetime."

Meg sucked in her lower lip and sat again, realizing she knew very little about the man her mother insisted was worth saving. What others had feared and loathed, her mother had insisted was a misunderstanding, a conclusion drawn too soon.

"Tell me," she said quietly. "Please, Mother, tell me the truth."


	8. The Goblin

Thank you very much to everyone who has left a review for this story. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my story and letting me know what you think.

The Goblin

"I'll have a bath drawn at once," Raoul promised as they pulled through the iron gates and up the long drive.

Christine rested her head against his shoulder and clasped her hand in his as they returned home from the sanctuary. The sun had started to set, the topiaries and fountains basked in golden light.

"You are too good to me," Christine said with a soft, blissful sigh.

"There is no such thing," he whispered back as he rested his cheek against the top of her head and enjoyed being beside her. Despite a moment of melancholy while at the sanctuary, lunch had been filled with conversation and laughter as they told stories and remembered their summers together spent by the sea.

"I still cannot believe you dived into the ocean to fetch my scarf," Christine said as she sat up and gazed out the window. "Your nanny nearly fainted and your mother was livid."

"I didn't care," he reminded her. He would have done anything for her. Besides, the nanny always acted as though she would faint at any little mischief he got himself into while his mother constantly told him to stop jumping, running, yelling, climbing, or playing. She'd wanted him to sit perfectly still and be a statue rather than a boy.

"You were soaked to the bone," Christine said with a laugh.

"Yes," he recalled. "And the nanny tried to strip me naked right there."

Christine blushed furiously. "Now you're embellishing."

Raoul shook his head. This silly, nonsensical moment was the most animated and gregarious he'd seen Christine in months.

"No, honestly," he said defensively. "She tried to unbutton my waistcoat and pull my shirt off right there while your mother dragged you away. God only knows what happened to that wayward scarf of yours."

Christine furrowed her brow. "You're right, Raoul. I don't remember if I ever took the scarf back with me."

"I risked death for you," he teased, winking at her. "At least that's what they said."

Christine squeezed his hand a little tighter. "My hero," she said with a wide grin.

"Now you're mocking me," he teased as the carriage came to a stop before the estate doors. He gazed out the window at a handful of servants all grouped together, their worried expressions matching their dark uniforms.

Christine noticed his change in demeanor and drew her hand away from his. "What is it?" she asked as she followed his gaze.

Raoul swallowed. He'd seen that look before, the dread that accompanied bad news. His servants never gathered in such a manner, especially at the entrance. Breath held, he suppressed a shiver and mustered strength to hear whatever news they carried.

The driver pulled the door open and he sprang out, landing smoothly on the stone entrance.

"What news?" he asked, his stomach knotted. Five years had passed since his father's untimely death and he feared another family tragedy.

Two male servants exchanged looks.

"Speak," he ordered, though his voice trembled. "Where is my brother?"

"He is well, sir," Donatien answered quickly. He was only a few years older than Raoul with features seemingly too large for his face. He had eyes big as a cow's and a long, thick nose.

Raoul nodded, relieved his brother hadn't fallen ill. "Then what is it? Why do you look so worried?"

"Your Uncle Severin sent word."

Raoul inhaled sharply. Uncle Severin, his father's brother, had never been a pleasant man. His father had often muttered that Severin would live forever on account he had so much bitterness in his blood that the reaper would spit him out.

"What has happened?"

"He fears his heart has gone bad," Donatien answered delicately. "He seeks your assistance."

"My assistance?" he asked incredulously. The old man never wanted help from anyone, least of all his whelp of a nephew. He must have feared for his life if he requested his youngest nephew's aid.

Donatien nodded. "He says his sons will not come to him. He turns lastly to you." The servant frowned. "He was quite adamant that you be informed you were last on his list."

Raoul crossed his arms. _Lastly_. He wondered how many other people outside of the family Uncle Severin had asked to help him before he conceded and sent word to his young nephew. The thought irritated him, but he made no remark. They were still family and he had come to understand the value of kinship.

"What business?" he asked.

"I apologize, sir, but he did not say."

"Of course," Raoul said at last. He turned and helped Christine from the carriage. She stood silently at his side and took his arm. "I will come to him at once."

"Very good, sir," Donatien said as he stepped aside in order for his master to pass into the house.

"What's wrong?" Christine whispered in his ear.

"Nothing," he replied, forcing a smile. Inside he felt as though everything were wrong. He hated that his own personal life was on hold for the sake of others, that his selfish cousins would not help their elderly father. Christine needed him here to look after her, to prove his affection. She needed something tangible after her difficulties within the opera house. "My uncle needs my assistance."

Christine pulled away and nodded. "Would you like to return to the carriage?" she asked.

He paused and took her hands in his as they stood in the middle of the hall. His burden would not be hers. She had enough on her mind and he wished her no further trouble. "Whatever he needs can wait until morning, Little Lotte. I do believe I promised you a hot bath."

She tilted her head down and smiled, leaving him unable to resist the temptation of kissing her forehead. At last she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his chest.

Just when she allowed him inside of her heart, duty called him away. He kissed her again and led her down the hallway, determined to enjoy the evening with her before he was forced away.

He could only hope his uncle wanted no more than a day or two of his time.

~o~

"How long will you be gone?" Christine asked as he led her down the hallway.

Raoul tapped on a doorway and startled two young servants folding laundry. Once he told them to draw a bath, they scattered from sight, giggling as they skittered down the hall.

"Only a few days," he promised. He paused and made a face. "A week at the most, though I fear he will reconsider his invitation, if you will, once he sees me."

"How do you know it won't be longer?" she asked warily, afraid of a long absence.

The house was far too large and new to her that she hated the thought of being alone for long.

"Oh, trust me, he won't tolerate me much longer than a few days," he said as they ascended the staircase. The walls were lined with small oval portraits of grandmothers, great-grandmothers, aunts, uncles, and a family poodle Christine vaguely remembered.

"You sound as though he doesn't like you," she pointed out.

Raoul grunted and offered an uncomfortable chuckle. Features pinched, he looked unusually uncomfortable. "Well, he doesn't."

"_Everyone_ likes you," she replied. From the moment she had seen him at the opera house, people flocked to him, hung on his every word.

"Do they?"

"Of course they do."

"Me or my name?" he asked.

She frowned. "You are charming," she assured him. "And very likeable, name or not. I cannot imagine a single person in the world who doesn't like you," she said, playful exaggerating her tone.

Their outing had done her good, the exotic adventure enough to ease her mind and wandering thoughts.

He looked over his shoulder at her. "Consider yourself fortunate you have not met the world and in particular a grumpy old toad of a man I call my uncle."

Christine let out a laugh. "Shame on you, Raoul de Chagny."

They reached the top of the stairs and he turned on his heel, pinning her between his body and the fabric wall. Immediately she gasped, her heart racing at their close, intimate proximity.

"He's like a goblin," he growled in her ear. "Twisted, with pointy teeth, bushy brows, and a cane he uses to beat small children and unsuspecting servants. A terrible, foreboding feeling engulfs all who dare to step near him."

Christine tilted her head back. "He sounds horrible," she whispered.

"You'll pray for me, then?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. He offered a wicked, crooked smile that made her heart race. "For my safe return from his goblin palace?"

She attempted a sober expression but burst into laughter. "And where is this goblin palace?"

"Outside of Paris, in the most dreadful part of all of France. Guarded by dragons and gargoyles," he answered. He inhaled sharply and stepped away, chuckling to himself. "I'll see you to your room."

Christine caught him by the arm and made him pause in mid-step. "Stay with me a little longer," she said breathlessly.

He searched her eyes, a curious, innocent look on his face. For a man who could instill fire within her in an instant, he had a strange sort of calm about him, a tame exterior with a very tight lid over his passion. His time away at military school gave him impeccable control.

"Have I frightened you?" he asked, keeping his voice low. He looked almost apologetic, a man always seeking her heart and approval.

_Anywhere you go, let me go too…_

She felt the tips of her breasts ache, her stomach filled with unexpected butterflies. She wanted to love him in the deepest way possible, to have him stir within her the darkest, most intimate emotions. The growl in his voice, the way he spoke of goblins and trepidation made her heart race for him.

"Frightened me?" she questioned as she ran the tip of her tongue across her lips and saw the flicker of interest pass through his blue-eyed gaze. "No, not at all."


	9. The Devil

"What happened?" Meg asked as she took her seat beside her mother.

Madame Giry ran her hand across her forehead and pinched her eyes shut. Too many memories competed for her attention, too much heartache brought tears to her eyes.

"He is your project, your duty," Meg sneered. "You dragged me into this—this nightmare."

Ann Giry took a deep breath. "He is not a project," she said, her tone lacking a defensive edge. She reached for her wine glass but didn't take a sip. Her taste for food and wine evaded her now that both Meg and Erik had erupted in anger.

"Of course he is," Meg replied, still voicing her frustration.

"He is a person," Ann replied. "A human being."

"He is a ghost!" Meg said through her teeth. "He is nothing more than a fraud."

"Which is partially my fault," Ann blurted out. She immediately reached for her daughter and clasped her hand before she could pull away. "Meg, listen to me. Please."

Despite turning away, Meg still nodded. "I want to know the truth."

Ann sat quietly for a moment. She only knew bits and pieces of what a frightened young man had revealed as his last confession. If he had thought he would survive the night, she doubted he would have told her how he had come to the traveling fair.

"Mother," Meg prompted.

"If you had seen him that day, so long ago," she said quietly. "If you'd seen how he lived, how he was kept, you would know the amount of suffering he'd endured."

"What do you mean?"

"I found him," she explained. "Covered in flea bites, his arms and chest black and blue from bruises, he was on display in the traveling fair."

Ann wrung her hands, thinking back to the many acts within the large, colorful tents. There was a woman with a beard, the tallest man she'd ever seen, and oddities such as a man with a unicorn's horn, an infant's skeleton with wings, and a woman with scales like an alligator.

They all stood at a distance, kept apart from the gasping, gawking onlookers who had paid for the show. Each exhibit was more unbelievable than the last, and the barker promised the most hideous, the most atrocious sight to ever be seen, was left for last.

"He said there was a man cursed by the devil himself, a bastard of Satan himself."

By the end of the tour Ann had considered ducking out of the tent and escaping from the animals and people the gypsies had placed on display, but the barker promised one last, fantastic exhibit. He beckoned them to view his greatest find—and to make certain they had rocks in hand should the beast wake angry.

"That last exhibit had a huge banner with red letters written as though they were dripping blood. I shuddered as we entered and gathered around a cage covered in a large, black cloth," Ann told her daughter. "The whole area stunk of urine and wet straw. There were animals kept in the corner, several horses and an elephant in chains. The animals backed toward the wall when they saw the barker coming."

She'd held her breath and watched the man with a scraggly beard and small, cruel eyes walk the length of the cage with a wooden club in hand. Each thump of wood against metal had made Ann shudder, fearful for whatever creature waited within the cage.

"He asked what we thought was beyond the curtain; a man or beast. I thought for certain he had a great ape, but when he pulled back the tarp, there was a thin, dirty boy in the corner with his head covered by a sack. The crowd began to laugh the moment he was revealed."

She could still see the way he recoiled; his knees up to his chest, his thin arms hugging his chest. Rope bound his wrists together and chains suited for a dangerous criminal or mighty beast clanged together at his ankles.

He'd remained stock still, as though somehow submission would spare him the humiliation he'd evidentially been through dozens of times before.

"He was already backed into the corner, but he made every attempt to seem smaller. Perhaps he thought if he refused to move, he would be spared, but this was not the case."

Meg's eyes widened. She pursed her lips and leaned forward. "What happened?"

The gypsy stalked back and forth, riling the crowd as he continued with his questions. Beast or man? Child cursed by the devil or an animated corpse? What was beneath the sack?

"I stood toward the back, but I couldn't help myself. I craned my neck for a better look, and when he pulled off the hood, I heard the crowd—and myself—gasp at the sight of him."

For years she regretted her actions, but nothing would have prepared her for a boy cowering in the corner, his hand pressed to the right side of his face and the terror in his eyes.

"The gypsy grabbed him by his hair and dragged him around the cage, pulling him toward the front and forcing his face against the bars. He knocked his head into the metal twice and dazed him, left him unable to move."

The crowd laughed, but Ann had held her breath and recoiled, alarmed by such cruel treatment. More grotesque than this boy's dirty face was the man standing over him, kicking and hitting him when the young man made no attempt to fight back.

"There he left him, yelling for us to look at him and get our money's worth. Then, when Erik started to struggle and defend himself, the barker hit him with his stick over and over again until he drove him to his knees."

And there he writhed in the moldy straw, crawling toward the safety of his corner while the crowd jeered and tossed rocks at him. The barker encouraged them to pummel the devil's child, to punish him for being evil.

"He cried out a handful of times and made every attempt to cover his face, but the barker was merciless. He intended to humiliate him fully, gleaning every coin he could from the crowd."

Meg swallowed hard and wiped the tears from her eyes. "My God," she said under her breath. "How did he escape?"

"The crowd started to leave and I followed behind them. Some people had tossed in extra coins, a sort of tip for the display, and the barker greedily squatted to collect his earnings. I looked back one last time at the boy in the cage."

She'd wanted to apologize to him, beg him to forgive her for standing by in silence. While the others cursed him and pelted him with rocks, she'd done absolutely nothing and realized her silence was no better than their cruelty.

"That's when I saw him climb to his feet. He had a rope, the same one that had bound his wrists, and he wrapped the binding around the gypsy's neck."

Within minutes the man stopped struggling and there stood the young man within his cage. He fished the keys dangling from the gypsy's belt and quickly removed the shackles from his ankles, then proceeded to look up and find he was not alone.

"If you had seen his expression that day, you would know why I helped him," Ann said sadly. "His eyes were filled with terror, like a horse after being beaten by its master. His face was so bruised, the welts on his arms and chest freshly formed. They would have killed him if he had stayed. I didn't have a choice, Meg, I had to help him."

The rest had become a blur. She remembered the cage door swinging open, grabbing him by the hand, and running out of the tent while men began to yell. _Grab him,_ they had yelled. _Stop him,_ the gendarmes had ordered. _Find him and kill him_, strangers bellowed.

"And you brought him to the opera house?" Meg asked.

She hadn't known what else to do and leaving him to fend for himself on the street wasn't a viable option.

"We ran to the side of the building where the drains emptied into the alley and I led him into the cellar. We stood there in hand for a long moment and I heard him breathing hard. He was shaking, trembling in fear of being caught. The gendarmes passed several times, but no one crouched into the puddles to look inside the drain."

Once the voices and footsteps became distant, she urged him further into the building and told him he would be safe for a night or two. She promised she'd find him a meal and blankets and apologized for the lack of real comforts. With a handful of candles and a lantern to provide light while she was away, he huddled in the corner.

"I told him to stay put and promised I would return in a few hours. All I asked was that he gave me his name and he said he was called Erik."

"No surname?" Meg asked.

Ann shook her head, still feeling sorry for him after long years had passed. "No family name. I'm not sure Erik was ever his real name or if he'd been given one."

Several hours passed and she returned with cold soup, a half loaf of bread, and a small amount of beef she had managed to sneak from the kitchen. She'd managed to find two blankets as well, which she tucked under her arm and carried down into the cellar.

"When I returned, I found him in the corner. He told me to stop once he saw me as he'd managed to put together a trap."

"A trap?"

Ann nodded. "He used an old net he'd found and secured the ropes to the ceiling. He'd devised a way to protect himself should anyone follow us down. I thought his plan ingenious, to say the least, and also incredibly sad as well."

"Because he needed a way to protect himself?"

Ann pursed her lips. "He was so afraid of being caught and I couldn't blame him. He was filthy, thin, and covered in bruises and welts. While I helped him settle, he told me rather distractedly that he had been beaten every day, every show—and they performed six times a day."

"Performed," Meg scoffed. "Hardly."

Ann shrugged. He had told her of how his father had sold him years before to a band of gypsies, how they had attempted repeatedly to tame him by their cruel ways. With his voice steady, he had recounted days of having the palms of his hands and soles of his feet burned with cigars, how they tied him to a tree and left him starving and without water. They sat in their tents while storms passed over and he was left staked in the open.

"He laughed without humor, bitter and uncaring. I feared for him, but I told him I would make certain no harm would come to him. Days turned to weeks, then months and he remained there, slowly building his life. He grew confident, he grew comfortable…but he stayed alone."

He had refused to leave the cellar, always afraid of being seen. Whenever Ann attempted to cajole him into entering the theater, she saw fear flash through his gaze. He would not be beaten again, suffer at the hands of the world. He would not be used for their amusement.

"His fear drove him further into the depths of the theater. He relied on music to save him from his loneliness. Each month when I paid him a visit, he had built onto his home a little more, created new ways to keep himself safe, and always there was more music, an entire library he kept to himself."

"You sound impressed," Meg commented.

Ann nodded. "He is a genius of song," she said. "You cannot deny his talent."

Eventually he fell in love with a chorus girl and blindly followed his heart. After years of living in the opera house, he used his imagination to deceive her—and in the end, caught up in a world of make believe, he had been disgraced, displayed upon the stage as he'd been long ago.

"I feel now as though I lied to him," Ann said. "He's still hunted, he's still not safe."

Meg stood and clasped her hands. As much as Ann hoped her daughter would understand why she wanted to help him, the look on Meg's face told her she was still bitter and untrusting.

"Mother," Meg said suddenly. "He's no longer a child."

"No, he's not," she agreed. "But he doesn't deserve to stand alone. He never did."

"He made his own decisions," Meg replied.

Ann frowned. "The moment people see him, they already have a predisposed notion. Imagine just for a moment, my dear, that you were judged by the world the moment everyone saw your face, that there was no way to convince them of your heart or your mind. They saw you as a hideous beast. This has been his life, Meg. This has been his heartache."

Meg looked away. "What about you?"

"I tried," she answered. "And I will continue to try as long as he allows."


	10. Consumed

THIS CHAPTER HAS AN ALL-OUT SEX SCENE, SO IF YOU SHOULDN'T BE READING THIS, OR IF SENSUAL ENCOUNTERS AREN'T YOUR THING, JUST SKIP THIS ONE. YOU CAN PM ME FOR A SYNOPSIS. HOT BUT I THINK TASTEFUL SCENE.

Raoul de Chagny watched as Christine blushed and stepped away, light and elegant as the dancer who had stolen his heart again. Her rosy complexion hinted at innocence, but the smile on her face lassoed him in with a devilish, seductive promise.

She shut the door to her room and he adjusted his cravat, his thoughts muddled. He wanted to be the perfect gentleman, but his mind was filled with pure wickedness of the beautiful young woman undressing a room away.

As if she knew his thoughts, she poked her head out the door. "Do you think the water has cooled down enough?" she asked.

"Half a moment and I will have your answer," he promised as he turned on his heel and headed toward the far end of the hall.

The two girls who had filled the bath curtsied and excused themselves as they exited the spacious, steam-filled room. Decorated in a horrid array of mauve, ivy, and cream, his Aunt Maybelline, who had stayed with his family for nearly a decade, made this into her private spa.

She decorated as well as a blind woman with garish taste.

He inhaled the performed, damp air and knelt beside the oversized tub. Tugging at his sleeve, he dipped his fingers into the water. Just hot enough to tolerate, he thought to himself.

The door creaked open and he glanced back, finding Christine with her long, thick hair twisted into a loose bun atop her head and a dark pink gown with a lace sash barely keeping her clothing in place.

He stared at her for a long moment, drinking in what seemed like forbidden beauty. He shouldn't have even glanced at her in such a state of undress, but he didn't look away.

The outline of small, firm breasts hitched his breath in his throat. He looked at her and swallowed hard, transfixed by the slope of her milky white neck, the gentle curve of her shoulders, and the way the sash hung at her trim hips.

"How is the water?" she asked smoothly.

"Hot," he answered. "But tolerable."

Eyes lowered, she stepped closer and knelt beside him, sticking her fingers into the water. She drew in a breath and nodded.

"Perfect," she said with a smile.

He lingered a moment, knowing he should leave her to relax, but curious and filled with his own untested heat. Between stringent schooling and unexpected family duties, he had only seen two naked women and neither of them seemed worth mentioning, especially not now.

Christine stood and hitched up her robe to her knee. "Would you mind hanging this on the door?" she asked.

Averting his eyes, he shook his head, wondering how he could be so terrified yet restless, filled with desire and fear. He reached out without looking at her, heard the rustle of fabric and the soft, cool cotton brush against his hand.

At the last moment he glanced up and met her eye, saw her look at him with calm, keen interest.

"Thank you," she said as she eased into the tub.

He cleared his throat and turned away, briskly walking toward the door. He nearly missed the hook with his trembling hands, which earned him a soft chuckle from Christine.

"Will you be needing anything else?" he asked, his words echoing what he normally heard from his staff.

Christine sloshed around the water and he pictured her in his mind's eye, long, perfect legs outstretched, small, firm breasts just beneath the water's surface. The rest was somewhat of a mystery he sincerely wanted to explore.

"Soap," she answered. "And towels when I'm finished."

He turned and glanced over his shoulder, finding both items just out of her reach. Clearing his throat, he cautiously walked toward her and reached for the soap.

Carefully he met her eye, refused to allow his gaze to rove. "Mademoiselle," he said with a nod, his voice betraying him.

Christine smiled when she looked up at him, tendrils of hair escaping from her bun. "You are such a gentleman, Raoul," she said, her voice a deeper growl than he'd heard before.

"You are making it nearly impossible to remain such," he confessed.

She shifted, legs outstretched, petite hands curled along the edge of the tub. "What am I making you?" she questioned.

Raoul swallowed hard and loosened his cravat.

"I fear I'm being terribly inconsiderate," he said at last.

She could tell he was conflicted as he stood before her, unsure of where he should look. His hands had balled into fists, his posture rigid. He was frustrated, a tight ball of nerves and desires needing to be loosened.

"Inconsiderate? Not at all," she replied. "Only a perfect gentleman would bring a lady a bar of soap and her towels," she teased as she reached for his hand.

He exhaled and looked away, his face flushed. Christine inwardly smiled, knowing Raoul was not one to surrender easily. He had always been kept under the close watch of two very strict governesses and a worried, frantic mother who considered him a helpless infant even when he was sent off to school.

Over the years he hadn't changed; she could see the carefully guarded desire in his gaze. She only wanted him to abandon his modesty and show her unabashed passion just this once.

She longed to feel the sudden race of her heart, the impulse of desire thrumming through her veins as it had when Erik had touched her. She didn't understand how she could want something so forbidden, how danger enticed her.

"I don't want my intentions to seem unsavory," he replied.

Christine reached over the edge of the tub and turned his face toward hers. "What are your intentions, Raoul?" she asked.

He allowed his gaze to wander briefly, his lips parted as he looked at her. "My first intention is to kiss you," he said hoarsely.

"And then?" she questioned. Her pulse quickened, unknown desire catapulting her forward. The question was not her own, the stroke of her finger along his chin driven by something deep inside. She was certain if she solely wanted him or if she wanted the primal experience.

"And then I don't know where I would stop," he answered as he leaned forward and gently touched his lips to hers.

He cupped the back of her head and kissed her harder, more passionate than he'd ever kissed her before. In animalistic desperation she turned, pressed her body against the inside of the tub and kissed him back, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Water sloshed over the edge, dampened his waistcoat and shirt, which made him draw back suddenly.

Wide blue eyes stared back at her, then down at his soaked clothing. His lips curled into a devilish smile and he kissed her again, so deeply her breath hitched and she felt weightless.

_Floating, falling…_

Oh, God, she felt as though she betrayed him still, gave herself to another man when she wanted was gone.

She pinched her eyes closed, savored the taste of Raoul's perfect mouth and the feel of his hot breaths against her face. He was here with her, he would always be with her.

Erik was gone. He'd been like a dream to her; fleeting danger, roaring passion, but nothing more than a wisp of smoke in the night. As quickly as he made her heart race he had disappeared.

Christine raked her hands down Raoul's back, needing to feel him there, the man who would never leave her side. She lost control of her senses and fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat and then suddenly his shirt until both garments were disgarded.

With a tremendous _plunk_ he fell into the tub on top of her, his hair damp and plastered to his forehead, the muscles of his shoulders bunched and fire behind his eyes.

"This is madness," he whispered as he chuckled to himself.

She nodded and pulled him closer until she could feel his strong, hot chest against her breasts.

"Don't stop," she murmured back, kissing his lips again.

He nodded and swept his broad hand beneath her. Desire and urgency melded until she had no choice but to obey her body's longing. She needed him in a way she still couldn't fully understand.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

She parted her knees, cradled him between her body and reached between their hips for his belt. She felt him against her, long and stiff against her hand. When he exhaled harshly she continued, curious yet still afraid.

"Have you—" she started.

"No," he answered before she finished. "No, never."

His answer made her smile. She nodded and struggled to unbutton his trousers, wanting to know what he really felt like. He bowed his head, ran his lips against her throat and along her collarbone and chest as she finally managed to help him out of his trousers.

She watched him explore her body, fingertips brushing along the swell of her breasts and the gentle curve of her quivering stomach. Each breath turned harsh and impatient, every nerve in her body waiting and wanting more. He reached lower, made her hold her breath and bite her bottom lip as ripples of pleasure filled her.

With no intimate experience, she had no idea what he was supposed to look or feel like, and touching him made her blush. He grunted softly and pressed a kiss to her earlobe as she wrapped her fingers around him.

"I need you, Christine," he whispered, his voice trembling. "But if you aren't certain, tell me now."

There was no stopping, no retracting the fire licking its way up her spine. She would have him take her now in the most intimate way possible or she would burst into flames.

"Show me how to touch you," she begged, wanting to return the intimate pleasure he'd already given her.

Without a word, he placed his hand over hers and groaned with each stroke until he felt like satin stretched over steel. Her throat went dry, her body reacting with anticipation of feeling him in a different way.

"Make love to me," she murmured.

He kissed her again, then gazed deeply into her eyes with a look that wasn't his own—yet one that she already knew. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, his hips between her parted thighs.

Breathlessly she held him, felt him with each thrust. Waves of water cascaded over the tub's edge while within minutes much harder waves consumed her, left her limp and sated. She had never felt anything grip her with such sudden force, then slowly fade and leave her barely able to breathe or move.

He pulled out suddenly and rested his forehead against hers while tremors rippled through his body and his breaths turned harsh.

"My God," he whispered. He kissed her again, softer than before. "Christine."


	11. The Endless Void

Erik stood on the small apartment balcony like a gargoyle looming in the night. The small space provided a view of an alleyway, which he assumed was a disappointment to the other tenants.

Erik, however, found the dark, crisp, vacant night a familiar, almost comforting location. With a sigh he pulled off his mask and wiped his forehead with a trembling hand.

Once again, he felt conflicted, unsure of what he should do or where he should run. He'd been hounded in the past, tracked and chased into hiding. He'd fled like a rat from one dark corner to another, but now he felt as though he'd exhausted most of his options.

He leaned forward, staring down into the abyss of darkness, a pool of inky night. From where he stood, there was no visible end, no cobblestone ground waiting to meet him. There would be no more longing, no more regrets, no pining for Christine's love that would never come to fruition.

One fall…and the words in the paper would become reality…he would be dead.

Fear held him back. He shuddered, knowing he was incapable of such drastic measures, mostly because he feared what would become of him. Perhaps his body would be picked up and examined by scholars or scientists interested in a living corpse, perhaps he would be burned or dismembered. What he left behind didn't much matter; he feared what he would face beyond death.

He squinted, searched the endless night, but couldn't see a damned thing. His heart ached, his chest painfully tight as he considered himself little more than a coward.

Taking a step back, he bumped into something soft. Whirling around, he heard a squeak of surprise well before he made out Meg's surprised visage.

Their eyes met, hers wide as she stared at him for a painfully long, awkward moment. Her expression lacked the fear he expected to see from others.

"Sneaking about?" he asked gruffly, immediately turning the right side of his face away out of instinct. He hadn't heard her footfalls nor sensed the heat of her presence. Foolishly he'd let his guard down.

"No," she answered quite brazenly. "And don't bother turning away."

He straightened his back and considered her words. With his mask still cradled in his left hand, he slowly turned to face her once more.

"Don't bother?" he asked in the most condescending way he could muster. "You wish for a private viewing of the beast, Mademoiselle?"

Meg stood her ground and appeared nonplussed when he faced her, dared her to turn away from him. "You forget, Monsieur, I have seen your face before. I did not turn away the first time and I will not turn away now, either."

He grunted. "Shall I commend your bravery?" he sneered. "Shower you with applause?"

"No." She gave a little shrug and shifted her weight. "However, you should offer your gratitude."

"Gratitude?" he question with a snort. "To what do I owe my gratitude?"

She nodded and twisted the end of her braid around her smallest finger. He watched her closely, recognizing a nervous habit from a little dancer. Despite the brave front she displayed, he knew her as a child always on the verge of hysterics. She hadn't changed much over the years.

"To what indeed," she said under her breath.

Crossing his arms, he looked her over, almost amused by her tone. "By all means, please continue," he said with a wave of his hand.

"Saving your life," she answered. She gave a mocking flourish and arrogantly added, "Yet again."

He took a step closer and held her gaze. "I beg your pardon?"

"You considered jumping," she answered. He scoffed, but she shook her head. "I could tell by your posture, the way you leaned over the balcony," she said as though the idea frightened her. "You removed your mask, perhaps entertained the idea of leaving it behind, one final token, one last note."

Her words settled hard in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't just considered suicide, he had envisioned the fall into nothingness, the cool night air as he plummeted to his unknown death. He'd felt the surge of danger and the bite of shame and regret.

Meg Giry looked at him as though she understood the dangerous thoughts buzzing through his head.

"What is this?" he questioned belligerently. "Concern for a ghost, Meg Giry?" he asked.

With a flip of her hair over her shoulder, she turned away. "If a ghost jumps from this distance, he would vanish yet remained unscathed," she said without bothering to look at him. "You? Perhaps you would have what you want."

"I never get what I want," he answered through his teeth as he brushed past her.

She rammed her shoulder into his arm and issued a cold, hard stare. "Neither do I."

"Ah, yes, your life is so similar to mine," he answered dryly.

"You know nothing of my life."

"And you know nothing of mine," he replied coldly.

She narrowed her eyes and looked him over, her gaze trained on the right side of his face for a long moment. Few had stared at him in the manner she so boldly examined him, looked him over as though attempting to discover the heart of him.

The longer she stared, the more uncomfortable he became. There was no heart left. Christine had gone away and without her, the music in his mind had come to an abrupt end.

"What are you staring at?" he snapped.

"A man," she replied. He swore she smiled out of satisfaction. "Only a man and nothing more," she said before she stormed out of his room and slammed the door behind her.

He gawked at her exit, wondering how she had managed to command more anger and frustration than he had mustered. He grit his teeth, tossed his mask onto his bed, and paced back and forth with his hands on his hips. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what had transpired. He'd been alone in the dark, miserable as always and then…

What had she meant by her words? She stared at a man and nothing more. Her blatant insult infuriated him, made him want to storm into the hallway, kick down her bedroom door, and demand she answer him at once.

His hands trembled and he released a heavy sigh of frustration, unsure of what to do or think. _Only a man_. Perhaps she hadn't meant her words as an insult.

He balled his hands into fists and grumbled to himself. He was not the type of man graced with compliments. Most certainly her words were meant in insult, another knife in his back. After all, he was nothing more. He was certain no truer words had been spoken.

The bedroom door opened with a soft click and he found Meg standing just outside the threshold with her arms held loosely at her sides. The light in the hall behind her made it impossible for him to see her face, but surrounded by the soft glow of light at her back made her appear almost angelic.

"My words were not meant as insult," she said as though she knew his thoughts.

He started to turn away but knew there was nowhere to hide. The trapdoors had been left behind.

"You forget I went looking for you in the catacombs," she added.

He hadn't forgotten. Permanently branded into his mind, every detail of the night was painfully clear. Every emotion an individual could feel he'd experienced that night; some so foreign they hadn't seemed real.

"I went to find you before the mob did," she said, keeping her voice low. "Before they took you."

Shamefully he looked away and shuddered. After the anger of Christine's betrayal, the revenge he'd wanted to take on her lover, and the tenderness of her kiss, he'd forced them away. Bewildered and exhausted, he'd used the last of his strength to escape and survive yet again.

"I went to find you," she said again.

"Because your mother sent you," he replied bitterly.

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "My mother told me to leave the theater at once as she feared for my life if I stayed inside."

"Then you disobeyed?" he asked harshly.

She took a step closer and he noticed she had something in her right hand, a shred of newspaper carelessly torn from the rest of the page.

"I have every intention of auditioning," she said, her voice returned to its normally meek tone. He noticed the change in her posture, the way she puffed out her chest as though this made her appear more assertive.

He chuckled inwardly at her brazen display. "I will not stand in your path," he assured her.

Taking another step closer, she stood within arm's reach of him and handed him the torn piece of paper. He eyed her a moment before accepting the scrap.

"What is this?" he questioned without bothering to read the article.

"They're hiring musicians as well," she stated. "And looking for new productions."

He wanted to crush the paper in his fist and discard the meaningless words. Music had left him and he doubted his muse would ever return. The notes that had once filled his mind had vanished, leaving behind an endless void. Her offer unintentionally mocked him.

"I want you to accompany me," she blurted out.

His eyes narrowed as he looked her over. "I beg your pardon?"


	12. The Curtain Falls

Raoul de Chagny knew no matter how brief a time he spent with his uncle, it would still be too much time away from Christine. He had captured, stole, and coaxed as many kisses as possible from her before saying good night as he knew by first light he would be gone.

She had blushed deeply, whispered they should return to their separate rooms despite holding him tighter. He loved the way she giggled and stared into his eyes, so shy yet so bold and assertive. Lips swollen from the many kisses they had exchanged, she smiled wide and sincere at last, his Little Lotte finally returned.

"What will your staff say?" she'd asked as she threw several towels on the floor to mop up all the water that ha splashed from the tub.

"I don't care what they say," he'd answered. Let them talk. God knew they would come to their own conclusions. He made her step away from the mess, told her cleaning was not her duty as he knew that if she waited on herself the servants would say she was unworthy to live there.

His staff was of little concern, especially when he was due to visit a member of the family who despised him.

Undoubtedly his Uncle Severin had heard of the opera house disaster and of Christine Daae. He knew his uncle wouldn't so much question his decisions as he would outright criticize, but that was a distinct trait of the de Chagny's. Men in their family were never satisfied or pleased, especially by the actions of the younger generation.

There was no reason to dwell, Raoul thought, as he dressed for bed. His insufferable uncle would ridicule him for being involved with a worthless singer, berate him for squandering family funds in the art—despite this being his own deceased brother's wishes—and voice his outright displeasure in being related to such a worthless whelp.

But Raoul swore his uncle's bitter words would not affect him. He was in love with a beautiful young woman he had saved from the clutches of an obsessive, disfigured man living as a deceitful ghost. He had done what any good, worthy man would have done and rescued a confused young lady who had been made to believe an angel was at her side.

He loved her, and tonight, in the most unexpected way, she had shown him how much she loved him in return. There would be no turning back, no erasing what they had shared. He smiled to himself and climbed into bed alone, longing for her touch and her companionship. Soon enough their engagement would become a wedding and he could share his love with her for the rest of their lives.

There would be no one in his life like Christine Daae, no other light or love in his heart. She had always been and would always be the world to him. Thinking of her made him want to throw open the bedroom doors, stand on the balcony, and shout to the world how much he adored her.

"Christine," he whispered in the dark as he closed his eyes and attempted to sleep for a few hours. "How I love you."

Raoul's carriage departed before dawn, the tack on the two white horses jingling as they trotted down the drive. Their clip-clop along the stone path and the squeak of the carriage wheels woke Christine suddenly. She sat up in bed with a start and jumped up, padding to the window.

A heavy feeling filled her heart as the carriage disappeared. Wisps of fog blanketed the grounds, veiled an already pitch black night.

Just when she wanted him with her most, family duty called him away. She frowned, her ties to a family nonexistent. She found herself worried for him as he seemed to dread his duty to tend to his uncle.

Suddenly wide awake, she dressed and ate breakfast alone in the dining room while the servants kept a careful distance. She thought of La Carlotta and how the Italian diva would have relished their attention and ordered them away with a flick of her wrist. She enjoyed issuing orders and cold stares, which Christine found impossible. Ordering servants around had never been an option and now, even with them at her disposal, she didn't want to assert herself.

"Reading material, Mademoiselle?" Donatien asked as he walked into the room with the newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He focused his gaze on a distant point to avoid eye contact, but still offered a smile.

With breakfast finished and nothing else to occupy her time, she nodded and quietly thanked him. The servants disappeared and she took the newspaper out to the back garden, which had been carefully preened and arranged with potted plants and flowers in full bloom.

Surrounded by living beauty, she relaxed and nestled into the high back chair with a floral print cushion and began browsing through the paper, glad to have a distraction from Raoul's absence and the upheaval of her life.

She wondered where Madame Giry and Meg had taken up residence, where the ladies who tended the wigs, scrubbed the floors, took tickets, or saw patrons to their seats had gone. Part of her wanted to see everyone again, to say a proper good-bye to the dozens upon dozens of people who not only worked within but lived at the opera house. Everything had happened suddenly, as though the breath had been punched from her lungs.

Twice now life had cruelly taken her life away from her. The first had been the death of her father and abrupt arrival at the opera house, which at first she had protested. She longed for their seaside home, the rush of waves and her father playing the violin late into the night.

Eventually, the opera house became home and Madame Giry like the mother she had never known. She wondered when the quiet would seem normal again, when nights spent around a dining room table with the man she loved would seem more comfortable than sitting smashed inside a crowded dressing room, surrounded by dancers fighting over the last candy one of the actors had left behind.

Her thoughts were cut short once she turned the page, her thumb covering large, bold letters. She placed the paper flat on the table and inhaled sharply as she stared at the unexpected words garnering her attention.

The opera house was not so distance after all.

ERIK IS DEAD

For a long, almost painful moment, she held her breath and clenched her jaw. There was no question as to whose obituary stared back at her, hard and definite as the man she knew as only Erik.

She took in a deep breath and pushed her hair behind her ears as though somehow rearranging herself would change the words. There was no need for a last name, no family to mourn his death or close friends to order a funeral. He had no one in his life—no one but her…and she had left him.

"My God," she whispered. Dead. No time or place of death, no telling if he had been killed or killed himself. The thought of him suffering physical pain made her shudder.

No, she thought. He had died in a different manner. The gendarmes had not found him, nor had he killed himself, at least not by his own hands.

She had killed him. The moment she had kissed his soft, trembling lips, held his thin frame, looked into his impossibly somber eyes for the last time, she had killed him. He had not been prepared for her decision, never thought she would willingly embrace him. The tears had flooded his eyes suddenly, his damaged face twisted in shame and agony.

In her heart she doubted she had seen the last of him. Perhaps he didn't know where she had gone, but she suspected eventually he would send her roses, a brief note, a token to say farewell. There would be a final chapter, one last moment for her to express how she felt for him underneath her trepidation and good senses.

He was not the type of man she was supposed to follow, but she had done so willingly. When he was near her, he made her heart stutter and when he spoke, every muscle in her body waited to respond to his command. She didn't understand why or how, but she did love him. They had shared the intimacy of music, notes she felt churn in her veins as much as she heard them in her mind. He was fluid, his every move careful, sensual, his voice as skillful as any instrument.

No one understood music like Erik. So disconnected from the rest of the world, he was both a master and a slave to his compositions. His passion for music was unmatched and she marveled at his focus and love for his art.

And now he was gone, a great composer lost before he was discovered. His voice was a fading memory in her mind, his touch no longer a spark along her skin. She pushed the paper to the center of the table, folded her arms, and sucked in a trembling breath. Nothing would hold back the tears or the sorrow.

She had betrayed him, a man who had given himself to her so completely, who wanted nothing more than his affection returned—and now he would never know how much she cared for him and wanted to apologize for turning away from him.

He had frightened her, he had stolen the breath from her lungs, but in the same instance she was still drawn to him. Despite the horrific scars, despite the dark places he dwelled, he was more than what he had shown her.

There was more to him, untapped potential, unknown love. He had wanted to show her his world, the life he had made—but she wasn't ready for him, not yet. Not then.

She had never told him how much she adored his music, how she found his talent alluring and powerful. With him, she felt a part of herself that had always seemed unfinished suddenly feel whole. People would have thought her mad if she said she found herself attracted to a beast like him, though to her, he wasn't a beast.

Misunderstood, she thought, judged before he was able to prove his worth. He was more than a ghost; she could see the hope in his eyes, the willingness to share with her what no one allowed him. None of this mattered any more.

The final scene of his life had played out, the dark, heavy curtain of life drawn….

Christine realized she was too late. She curled her hand into a fist, remembered how he had gently placed his hand atop hers when she handed him the ring back, gazed into his sorrowful eyes. Resigned to his fate, he had merely nodded, his shoulders dropped, chest heaving as though the small ring weighed down upon him. She had issued the final blow, then darted away, leaving him to die.

She thought she had won her freedom, but she felt as though she had lost her heart. She loved Raoul, adored him…but she regretted her choice. She didn't want to be caught in the middle. She didn't want to issue a death blow to one man and be a prize for the other. Neither decision seemed satisfying.

It was over abruptly, this Phantom's opera. There would be no second chance, only a lost opportunity staring her down.


	13. A Song and a Deadline

A/N I revised the previous chapter because I found a few typos. I also added a little more to the last few paragraphs. Thank you to everyone who has left a comment so far! Much appreciated! This is a longer chapter and a change for Erik!

"I want you to accompany me," Meg said, this time louder than before.

Erik furrowed his brow and stared at the newspaper ad promising top dollar to performers and musicians alike. New plays and musical acts would also be considered, with a substantial payment given up front to accepted work.

"For what purpose?" he asked. He had intended to speak his words with a bite of anger, but his voice hadn't cooperated. As much as he wanted to seem disinterested, he found her curiosity piqued his own.

"I do believe you fit the description of musician and composer," Meg answered. She gave a little shrug and looked positively pleased with herself.

"In another lifetime," he muttered.

Meg rolled her eyes. "Another lifetime? Weeks ago you had finished an opera and now suddenly you are without the ability to compose?"

"That opera took a lifetime, _my_ lifetime," he snapped. For days on end he worked on Don Juan Triumphant, forgetting to eat and sleep in favor of his art. Nothing mattered to him in those miserable, lonely days; the characters needed their story told, the music in his head needed release. He would compose or he would die; there was no in between. "I cannot simply compose an entire production in a matter of hours or days."

"Then write something shorter," she suggested, matching his harsh tone.

Erik gritted his teeth. He should have simply stormed away and forgotten her silly notion, but the idea of composing a handful of songs for payment and the gratification of being a composer unexpectedly kept him in the hall.

He had loved music before he had ever loved anything or anyone. This was part of him—yet the thought of being rejected for his art or ridiculed because the song in his head wasn't worthy of a critic made him cringe. He wasn't sure he could accept further rejection.

Christine's denial had been more than sufficient.

"No," he protested.

"You are a composer, yet you find satisfaction in leaving your compositions in a pile?"

He was a musician, an artist—a showman hidden from the world. In his mind he devised the sets, the backgrounds to his unfinished work. He could hear the singers, the melodies playing in the theater. He could feel the swell of music in every heartbeat, the songs he had finished but that were lying dormant and unused. How empty he felt, his work ready to be set free like a racehorse confined behind the gates.

By God, Meg Giry was correct. He was a composer. He needed to hear his work performed…and it _would_ be performed…wouldn't it? Don Juan Triumphant had not been received well by the singers and actors in rehearsals. He'd heard them complain, saw from afar as they turned up their noses and discarded a lifelong endeavor. Prudes, all of them, too set in their ways to see the masterful truth.

"My work is…unsuitable for their theater," he grumbled, still grasping at excuses to wallow in self pity.

Meg tilted her head to the side and examined him. Still without the mask, he looked away from her first, unable to look her in the eye when he felt so exposed. The thought of his opera, of how Christine had betrayed him on the stage…he couldn't bear to think of that night.

"You have been to this theater?" she asked.

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, frustrated by his question. "I have not."

She laughed at his words and shook her head. "You are a stubborn, ignorant, fool of a man refusing like a spoiled child." Erik shoved his finger toward her face, but she swatted his hand away. "Write something tonight."

"Such as?"

"Something I could sing," she replied as though the answer was obvious. "Easy, I suppose. I know my voice is not suitable for a lead role, but I think I have enough skill as a dancer to be accepted."

"Write something easy?" he questioned dryly. Clearly Meg Giry knew nothing of music if she thought he could simply write something easy.

Meg gave a sigh. "Write whatever you wish."

"Do you honestly think that in the course of a night I can just spit out a song?" Erik asked. His arms flailed as he spoke, anger and passion sparked, the two best ingredients for inspiration. "Perform like a damned monkey for the whims of others?"

She looked nonplussed by his display, unaffected by the flare of his temper. "I believe sincerely you already hear the melody in your mind," she said with a great deal of satisfaction.

And she was correct. From the moment she had handed him the scrap of paper, he could hear the violins and cellos, the formation of a song as though each note was part of him. He just had to weave the notes together, stir his soul until the song flowed. No matter how much he tried to deny it, the song was already there. Another one lingered as well, more suited for a piano. That was the one she would prefer.

"I will need to rehearse," she said as she turned away. "If you finish before midnight, I would like to hear it."

"What makes you think I will write a song for you?" he asked as he crossed his arms.

She grunted. "You aren't writing a song for me," she replied. "You're writing a song you want others to hear and I just so happen to be the one singing it."

With a sigh he returned to his small apartment. He unbuttoned his waist coat, set the garment aside, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and took a deep breath. With the lamp turned up, he sat hunched over at the desk, and composed until his fingers were black with ink and the clock in the hallway chimed midnight. The music had poured from his heart, each emotion he'd bled over the last few weeks coming to life in several compositions. Note by note, bar by bar, he felt himself relax until the music finished itself. He wrote a song no one would ever hear, and then he wrote what he suspected Meg would find suitable for her audition, a melody bubbly and upbeat, perfect for a small theater filled with ladies and gentleman seeking an enjoyable evening out.

The song was like nothing else he'd ever written, which he suspected Meg would also appreciate.

Satisfied at last, he retrieved his mask, fit it into place, and walked with a handful of papers into the hallway.

Meg Giry stood outside the door with her hands clasped behind her. She had changed since supper, donning a blue dress and gaudy necklace with matching earrings, which he realized was most likely her garish costume for her audition.

"Five after the hour," she commented, nodding toward the clock.

He narrowed his eyes. "And what of it?" he asked gruffly.

She smiled back and glanced from him to the papers in his left hand. "You're late."

Rather than a swell of anger, he found himself amused by her words. "My sincerest apologies, Mademoiselle Giry," he answered sarcastically.

"Will you play it for me?" she asked, though her words sounded like more of a demand than a request.

He shrugged and at last conceded to her words, though deep inside he could not wait to hear the melody on the piano and not just in his mind. With the music in hand, he followed her through the house to the parlor where Madame sat sewing.

"What's this?" Madame asked as he stood in the doorway.

"A new song," Meg answered before he could speak.

Madame furrowed her brow. "A new song?"

"For my audition," Meg said as though this should have been obvious.

Madame continued to stare at Erik. "She found something for you to play and you…agreed?"

"I composed a song," he corrected.

Madame's eyes widened. "You composed a song?" she asked incredulously.

"Indeed, Madame." Why this surprised her he had no idea as he'd always composed music, though in truth he hadn't expected to write again. With Christine gone, he felt as though his muse had died.

"When was this?"

"Tonight," Meg chimed in, her voice filled with unexpected excitement. "Just now."

"Just now?" Madame gasped.

"Like a trained monkey," he said under his breath.

Meg chuckled to herself and motioned him toward the piano. She stood with her hands clasped and an enigmatic smile as she waited for him to take a seat and begin playing.

"You are playing it now?" Madame asked.

Erik hesitated. Aside from Don Juan, he'd never had an audience and now, with just Madame and her daughter in the parlor, he felt his nerves suddenly on end. As much as he always wanted his music heard, the intimate setting made him reconsider.

"Of course he's playing now," Meg said, clearly irritated by her mother's barrage of questions. "Why else would he have come into the parlor with his music if not to play the new song?"

"This is unexpected," Madame said. "Welcomed, of course, but completely unexpected. How did this happen? When did he decide to being composing again?"

"When I asked him to do as much," Meg answered.

"You asked him?" Madame questioned, sounding almost horrified. "And he agreed?"

Taking a breath, he ignored the Girys and seated himself at the piano. His heart raced, the tips of his fingers still stained black tingling as he stared at the keys. With the sheets of music set out before him, he flexed his hands and nodded.

"Quiet, please," he said over his shoulder.

The two immediately fell silent and he closed his eyes, feeling the music within him rather than reading the notes of the page. There was no need to memorize the song as this was part of him, like a branch off a vast tree. No matter how far from the roots, it was still connected. Each note was like a breath, so natural, so easy to play.

When he finished the last notes, silence fell over the room and he twisted around, expecting to find the room empty. He was always alone with his music, solitude broken by sweet melody, but always waiting for him.

Instead he found Madame with her hand over her heart and Meg Giry with the most peculiar look on her face. She smiled when she looked at him, a wide, genuine grin that made the dimples in her cheeks deepen and her blue eyes crease.

"Suitable?" he questioned when neither of them spoke.

Meg practically danced toward the piano and gathered up the sheets. "Did you honestly write this just now?" she asked. "Honestly?"

He nodded. Pride returned as he saw her expression. She was clearly impressed by the quality as well as the speed in his composing. "Every word and note," he assured her.

She placed her hand on his shoulder and nodded. Everything about her was unexpected from the smile on her face to her grip on him. He glanced at her delicate hand, then back at her as she read from the sheets and mouthed the words. Her fingers tapped his shoulder in time with the beat as she whispered the lyrics.

So few had dared to look him in the eye and even fewer had ever laid a hand on him. He wasn't sure what to think and even less certain of what to do. He felt no attraction toward her—not in the way he'd been attracted to Christine—but he found her presence and especially her exuberance over his music enjoyable. The last thing he'd ever expected was to find Meg Giry's company tolerable, let alone enjoyable, especially given how supper had gone.

"Sing with me," she blurted out as she shook him gently and shifted her weight in giddy excitement. "I want to make certain I have this just right for tomorrow."

He met her eye and nodded, appreciating her willingness to not just learn the song, but perfect it. "As you wish," he said under his breath before once again he played his music.


	14. Uncle Severin

By late morning Raoul arrived in Paris and took a deep breath, preparing himself for a meeting with his uncle. Years had passed since he'd last seen the bitter old man, and he suspected nothing had changed.

The townhouse Severin resided in was well-kept, the white brick exterior carefully preened, the grass greener than any of the other lawns on Rue Dante. The property was one of several residence he owned, though this one he frequented the most because of his love for being directly in the middle of all affairs, both involving his family as well as the rest of France.

His butler, a white-haired, thin man of short stature, answered the door with a bland greeting.

"The Vicomte de Chagny. The elder de Chagny has been expecting you," the butler said with a curt nod. He ushered Raoul inside and held up a white gloved hand. "You shall remain here."

He waited in the marble foyer beside an ivory statue of three naked women intertwined. Vases of flowers perfumed the entrance while paintings adorned the walls.

"Nephew," he heard Severin snap.

His harsh tone immediately made Raoul straighten and force a smile. "Uncle," he said as cheerfully as he could manage. "How are you?"

"Unwell," the old man answered tightly. "If your ignorant servants had delivered my note you would know as much."

Raoul clenched his jaw. "Forgive me for my own ignorance, Uncle Severin."

"Your own ignorance is inexcusable," he scowled as he shook a rolled up newspaper in the air. "You have brought shame upon our family, what with these childish endeavors."

Raoul furrowed his brow. "And what endeavors would those be?"

The old man was feebler than Raoul expected and took his time teetering down the hall. Worn and thin, with an ill-fitting dark suit and hair long and wispy, his only strength was his ability to scowl.

Severin grumbled for his nephew to join him in the parlor, which Raoul did without hesitation. Despite his fragile state, Severin still had the ability to strike fear into him.

Just looking at his uncle's hardened face made Raoul want to recoil, disappear into another room or away from the townhouse all together. The memories of being struck with a cane or slapped across the face for speaking out of turn brought to forefront of his thoughts.

"The orphan," Severin said once he sat in a heavily padded chair and motioned Raoul toward a meager stool in the corner.

He felt instantly reduced to childhood, to miserable holidays spent visiting his uncle. That small wooden stool was where he had spent hours upon hours in silence facing the wall, punished merely for existing. He was not to speak or move while in his Uncle's presence. He was to be as still and unnoticed as the stool itself.

"I am not sure what you mean, Uncle. Forgive me," Raoul said as he reluctantly took his seat.

"Forgive, forgive, you stupid bastard, you ask for nothing but my forgiveness, which you do not deserve," his uncle shouted.

Out of fear and respect, Raoul lowered his gaze and nodded. There would be no arguing with an elder de Chagny.

"All over the papers for weeks there has been sensational news of you, my worthless nephew, and a ballet dancer. Your father would have been disgraced! What business do you have soiling your hands in such filth?"

"Ballet dancer? You mean Christine Daae?" Raoul asked.

The old man slapped the newspaper against the arm of his chair. "Yes, yes, the orphan of the theater."

"The only child of famed violinist Gustave Daae," Raoul replied defensively. "Mother and father knew Monsieur Daae. They were friends with him."

Severin made a sound of disgust. "He was a worthless, talentless drunk. Your parents kept odd friends."

"Why did you summon me? To insult Mademoiselle Daae?" Raoul blurted out. "To insult my parents? God rest my father's soul, Uncle, it was much better than yours."

His uncle narrowed his eyes, but seemed unfazed by his nephew's brazen words. "Is she carrying your child?"

"No," Raoul said firmly.

"The child of another man?"

He shook his head, angered by his uncle's insinuations.

"But you have slept with her, yes? That is why you so adamantly wished to swoop in and be her heroic savior? Quite the man of the hour in the newspapers, Raoul," the old man said bitterly.

"I have known her since we were children," he answered, though he didn't feel obligated to explain himself. Their relationship had no bearing on his uncle's life and Raoul would be damned if the old fool thought he could force them apart.

"You are in love with this…chorus girl?"

Raoul stood and looked down at the elderly man. "She is more than a chorus girl, Uncle. She is a fine singer and a bright and beautiful young woman. If she does not have your respect, then you do not have my service here. Good day to you."

He felt a small sense of triumph once he stood. Seated with his knees up to his chest he felt as humble and worthless as the boy he'd been years ago, the inconvenience dropped upon his uncle's doorstep for a visit.

Raoul turned to leave, but his uncle hit the door with his cane and nudged the barrier shut.

"What do you know of the arts?" Severin questioned. "God knows you have spent more than enough time in a vulgar theater."

"I know enough," he answered harshly without bothering to look in his uncle's direction.

"My brother wasted a fortune supporting those worthless, talentless idiots. I suspect you have followed in his footsteps."

"Quite valiantly I have supported the same theaters and arts as my parents," he corrected.

"You would feel comfortable managing a theater, then?"

Raoul furrowed his brow. He had never been on the business end of entertainment. He had been a patron in the past, thought that consisted of little more than signing a check and accepting tickets to performances.

"I would not consider managing a theater as one of my talents," he answered, fully expecting his uncle to inform him that he indeed had no talents whatsoever.

"This orphan, would she be willing to sing again?" Severin questioned.

Raoul hesitated. He couldn't answer on Christine's behalf, even though he suspected returning to the stage and the theater was in her heart still. With all that had transpired, he wasn't certain she was prepared mentally as she was physically.

At last she seemed content and he didn't want anything to jeopardize how she had opened up. Weeks of her simply saying she was happy with him had finally turned into genuine joy to be in his company. He could imagine no greater moment in his life than when they were finally married and their lives began together.

"I would have to ask Mademoiselle Daae," he replied at last.

"Do you know her whereabouts, boy?"

Raoul nodded. "I do."

"In your bed?" he grumbled.

Patience wearing thin, Raoul clasped his hands behind his back and stood taller, prouder. "She has private quarters of her own located on my estate," he said sharply. "We are engaged to be wed shortly."

"There is a child, then?"

"I assure you there is not," he growled, tiring of his uncle's taunting words and insinuations. Not yet, he thought—not that he had been made aware. Despite the heat of passion, he had been careful.

His uncle looked him over. "If she is suitable talent, I would consider her for opening night."

Raoul shifted his weight. "Opening night for what?"

"A brand new establishment, boy," Severin answered in his usual gruff tone. "Don't you read the newspaper?"

"I have avoided reading them as of late, I admit," he answered. Over and over, day by day, he had seen nothing of interest. The newspapers and apparently the readers were enthralled by the mystery of the Phantom and the destruction of the theater. Each morning he had thrown the paper into the refuse, no longer wanting to read about the disaster they had survived.

"Well, you should be aware of the world," Severin responded.

"I have seen enough of Paris for the time being," Raoul said firmly. "Why have you asked me here? I am told no one else would entertain you."

Severin appeared furious, but he offered little more than a cold chuckle. "You are one damnable child, Raoul," he said, spitting out his words. "Sit at once or I will strike you with my cane," he threatened.

Raoul looked at the stool, then back at his uncle. "I shall stand, thank you."

The old man rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "My theater opens in one month's time. With the Opera Populair now closed, there was need for a new establishment. You seem to have a great deal of experience chasing song birds and I expect you are at least capable of bumbling through the motions when it comes to managing a theater as this endeavor seems to require little talent."

Raoul inhaled sharply. "I am not interested."

"Your interest is of no concern, boy."

"I refuse."

"You are beneath me," Severin reminded him. "In thirty days, you will be at opening night and you will see that theater full. Do you understand?"

"Where is it located?" Raoul asked, knowing his uncle would not accept his answer. No matter how much he refused, Severin would not listen. With his mind made up, he had expectations for his nephew.

The old man tossed him the rolled up newspaper. "Read it for yourself. I trust you are educated enough to do such."

Raoul glanced at the paper. He exhaled and shook his head. Just when he felt as though he stood on the brink of his own life, once again his family name shoved an unexpected duty upon him.

"For how long?" he muttered.

The old man laughed to himself. "For as long as I say."

Raoul turned away, frustration thrumming through his veins. "Good day, Uncle."


	15. A Talented Man

By two in the morning, Meg was finally satisfied with her performance. She apologized to her mother for the late hour, then kissed her goodnight and watched her leave the parlor.

Madame took one last look at Erik and nodded. "Well done," she said before she quietly slipped from the room.

Once her mother left, Meg turned toward Erik and offered a tentative smile. She seemed to have reverted back to her nervous self in his presence, wary of the man who had been the mythical, imposing Phantom.

"The song is beautiful," she said as she continued to rifle through the three-page composition. "Unlike anything I expected you to write."

He stared at the keys and chuckled to himself. Just when he had hoped for a change, she insulted him outright. "How would a monster ever be capable of creating beauty?" he replied coldly, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Perhaps I did not write this after all."

She lowered the sheet music and frowned at him. Her eyes met his, a hint of irritation in her gaze. "That was not at all what I said or meant," she assured him.

"Then what did you mean?"

Meg gave an exaggerated sigh. "Upbeat, hopeful, exciting…my words are not meant as an insult, though you must surely understand that this was not what I expected you to write. This is…happy," she said with a shrug.

"And I am anything but," he answered.

"For the time being," she replied as she took her seat in the corner where her mother had been.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, fought against the desire to engage in conversation. Communication had been a great struggle, a battle he no longer wished to fight. Each attempt he made to be part of society ended in arguments…or worse.

He would compose music and stay alone. There was no other path for him to travel. Each time he attempted to wander, seek a different sort of salvation, he was brutally put back into his miserable place.

"Were you ever happy?" Meg asked suddenly.

He twisted around to briefly look at her, taken aback by her words and unexpected question. Whether asked in curiosity or out of pity, he had no use for her inquiry.

An honest answer seemed impossible, as admitting aloud the hell he had endured was too much to bear. He was ashamed of his childhood—and afraid he was still that terrified youth.

His parents hadn't loved him. There had been no kind words, no affection in their eyes. In the middle of the night his father had grabbed him from his bed, covered his mouth, and forced him half-naked into the wintery cold.

Erik could still remember the sting of the tears in his eyes, the way his feet turned numb from the snow, the way the mask shielded one side of his face from the wind. Head bowed, he hadn't protested or questioned where they were headed or why. So many times he had watched his father snatch up a goose, pin it to a block of wood, and behead the creature without so much as blinking an eye.

In his heart—if there had ever been one—he expected his father to lead him to the back of the house and kill him, though his fate was much worse.

They walked an hour to a camp with filthy old men smelling of vodka crouched around a fire. He'd been shoved forward by his father, who claimed to have found him one night. With no use for this orphaned, deformed boy, he wanted to see if the circus could use another freak.

"He don't each much," his father had said as though this would only add to his sale's price. "He don't speak much either."

"What does he do?" they wanted to know.

_I endure beatings without question. I can go weeks without uttering a word. I am hideous and horrible and I long to be rid of this body._

Without warning, his father grabbed him by the hair and pulled off his cloth mask. The faces around the fire turned from disinterested to horrified by the sight of him. He was unlike any creature they had seen before, the true son of Satan himself.

"How much?" the gypsies wanted to know. Greed filled their gazes and brought wicked smiles to their faces.

Erik took a half step back, but his father pressed his hand into the middle of his spine. He would not allow him to walk away, to seek the comfort of the darkness and the forest, to simply disappear.

In that silent moment, before complete strangers, Erik understood his father wanted rid of him and intended to be paid for the son he had created.

They could have offered a single gold coin or an entire purse and his father would have agreed. Numbness replaced Erik's fear and melancholy. No more than a child, he couldn't understand why this had been his life, why the man who had sired him so easily dragged him from the warmth and protection of his bed and into the hands of strangers.

He distinctly remembered keeping his head down and listening to the soft clink of gold deposited into his father's hand. Not once had his father bothered to look in his direction, to apologize, to offer any explanation. They were not wealthy, but not as destitute as many he had seen.

More than anything, being abandoned—sold to a circus—hurt him worse than any beating. There was no answer that night and there would never be one, not in his terrible lifetime.

He was not expected to create anything of worth or beauty, not by his own father and not by Meg Giry.

The clock in the upstairs hall chimed three in the morning and Erik realized he'd sat in silence for an hour. Jolted by the sound, he stood abruptly and found Meg still patiently sitting in the corner.

"You have not yet had your fill for the night, Mademoiselle?" he snapped. "Not enough of the beast?"

"Stop," she warned. "No more of this."

"What do you want?" he questioned, his gaze boring into her.

"Nothing."

"Do not lie to me, Meg Giry," he seethed, his hands balling into fists. "There is always a price, a desire for wealth whether it's tangible or not."

Even as he spoke he regretted his words. She could have very easily screamed to the gendarmes that the phantom was still within the cellar on that horrible night. She could have left him for dead in the abandoned building and told her mother that the crumbling structure was vacant. She could have told him the truth, that plunging to his death was a viable, even welcomed option as no one would think of him twice once he was gone.

But she had not.

"You write beautiful music and you play as though each note is part of you," she blurted out. "I don't know of a single person who has ever seemed so fluent with composing and playing and I have lived my entire life within the theater. If I want anything, anything at all, it is to hear you play again and allow others to hear your music."

"Why?" he asked at last.

"Because you're quite talented," she responded. "A genius, perhaps, the same caliber as Mozart."

He stood in silence and gauged her tone, repeating her words in his head while he searched for a hint of sarcasm or mocking inflection. Praise was not something he was accustomed to receiving and he found her words incredulous.

"You think I'm lying?" she asked when he didn't speak.

Erik couldn't bring himself to answer. He wanted to shoot back with angry words, his voice powerful and booming, but he had grown weary of being defensive. The world was not a place for a creature such as himself. There would not be a day when he could walk amongst men with a wife on his arm.

She had to be lying. Perhaps she didn't even realize the words she spun, but he hadn't received or deserved any amount of praise.

But in her blue eyes there was no hint of deception. Her expression looked familiar, reminded him of a day long ago, one as cold and miserable as the night his father had betrayed him. Looking at Meg then made him shudder and forced his gaze away.

She resembled her mother so much more than he'd ever realized. Memories rushed in, a distant recollection of the wind beating against the tent, the animals tethered in the corner pawing at the ground, the murmur of voices in the distance.

He still remembered Madame's expression. Back then she was only Anne to him, a young dancer frantic to help him escape. More than sympathy, he saw compassion in her eyes.

"Do you think I'm lying?" Meg asked, this time with greater force.

"No," he said at last. Tired of being a coward, he looked up at her and saw her mother's face, a true angel come to rescue him. All of these years he had disregarded how much she meant to him, but he knew he couldn't pass her off a moment longer. This would be his last chance at redemption, his final attempt at earning respect for his music. He needed their help. In a sense he realized he'd always needed help.

"But," he said suddenly. "I have no idea why you would tell the truth."

"Because I have no reason to lie," she replied. Her features softened. "Your talent is truly unmatched."

He nodded. "If you wish, I will play the song for you one last time in the morning before rehearsals."

Meg lifted a brow and turned her head to the side. "You will play it at rehearsals," she said as though the matter had already been discussed.

"That would be unwise," he answered. The theater would be surrounded by gendarmes the moment he stepped foot inside.

"Accompany me at least," she said quickly. "I would hate to walk that distance alone."

"Take a carriage," he suggested.

"You don't want to hear it played?"

He longed for the acoustics of a theater, the bright lights of the stage and the shadows cast upon the crowd. In six months he might be able to sneak inside or slip past unnoticed, but not now, not yet.

"I already have," he lied, knowing it wasn't the same.

Meg didn't argue. She returned the sheet music to the piano and lingered at his side for a moment, still looking him over. He could almost see the ideas flitting behind her eyes.

"The weather is still cold," she said. "If you didn't remove your hat or hood, no one would think twice."

He gave her credit for her insistence, but now was not the time to return to the theater. His heart ached at the thought of staying at a distance from the life he had known and the safety of make believe. For many years he'd watched rehearsals and voiced his disapproval of casting, set designs, or production selections via notes he left for the managers. What had started out as simple delinquent behavior as a youth had turned to the fabled existence of a menacing ghost.

More than anything, he wasn't prepared to return to the place that would remind him of Christine. He teetered on the edge of grief turned to madness, such endless, painful longing he didn't know existed. He had given himself completely to her, so full of hope that he could change her mind and make her see him as a man. Carefully he had set the stage, but he had ultimately failed.

She was gone and he was dead to her.

"Good night, Meg Giry," he said before he turned away, opened the parlor door, and waited for her to follow.

"You do realize the fool sitting at the piano will never be able to play this song as you did?" Meg said before he took the first step.

His hand curled around the balcony, mouth hardened. "You are cunning for three in the morning," he commented.

Meg replied with a smile and left him at the bottom of the stairs. He watched her trot up the wooden staircase and close her bedroom door without so much as glancing back.

"Damn you," he muttered, knowing sleep would not find him.


	16. The Protection of an Angel

The house remained nearly silent for the majority of the day. Unable to tolerate the quiet emptiness of such a large space, Christine fled through the kitchen and out the back door. No one said a word or asked where she might be headed, for which she was grateful.

She walked aimlessly, lacking both purpose and direction into the garden. Beyond the iron fence she saw the headstones from the immediate de Chagny family and paused.

There was too much death around her, too much imposing silence and the linger of heartache. She thought about her father's death, how she had been pulled from his side without more than a nurse promising she would be fine. As the years passed, Christine wondered how the woman could have lied to a child. Surely she knew that an orphan's life would never be fine. She would mourn for years, much longer than anyone understood or realized. While others continued on with their lives, she struggled to recover.

Even at a distance, she saw the headstone belonging to Raoul's father. Her fiancé had been a teenager when his father had been killed. Raoul hadn't shared many of the details, saying only briefly that he'd been summoned from school and returned home.

"I never had time to find my shoes," he had told her with a shake of his head.

They shared a similar jolt in their lives, a deep quake of splitting from the rest of the world.

She walked toward the gate and wrapped her hands around the slender metal bars. Ice cold to the touch, she shivered and stared at the small plot reserved for the de Chagnys. A large oak tree shaded the grounds, made it nearly impossible for the flowers to grow.

Instantly she remembered Erik and wondered what had become of him. She wondered if he'd been allowed a proper burial, a moment to finally rest in peace. He deserved the dignity granted others, a chance to be only a man.

Eyes closed, she held her breath and saw his face again, recalling her initial reaction when she pulled the mask from his face and saw what he hid. Tall and gaunt, with sunken eyes and a drawn face, she knew he hadn't slept in days. He had confessed as much when he allowed her to return to the theater, mumbling how he had been so nervous on her behalf.

"I want so badly to see you succeed," he said as he wrung his gloved hands. In one moment his voice was soft and pleading, but then he turned and eyed her over his shoulder and his tone changed. "You will succeed on the stage. I will not have it any other way."

"Who are you?" she whispered when he turned from her.

He hesitated, loosened his grip on her hand before he spoke. "The angel," he said at last, keeping his head down. "Your angel of music, my dear."

At once she recoiled from him and paused in the cellar. "Why do you look that way?" she blurted out.

"The angel of music was not granted beauty on the outside," he explained remorsefully. He looked over his shoulder at her and offered a tentative smile. "My apologies for my appearance."

He reached for her hand once more, but paused with his fingertips against hers.

"The mask," he said. His gaze automatically lowered. "Does it frighten you?"

She nodded, though she wasn't truly afraid of the mask or the man beneath it. She feared his sudden temper, the way in one moment he was gentle and calming, then enraged in the next.

He gently pinched her wrist between his thumb and forefinger and guided her through torch-lit darkness. "Eventually you will look upon me and not react in fear or repulsion, Christine," he assured her.

His voice emerged hollow, like a man on the verge of being broken. She knew she was not the first to look at him and gasp in horror or draw back in fear at his deformed face.

She considered apologizing, but they reached the upper floor and he slid her mirror open and pulled her through. Without a word, he gave a single nod and disappeared.

He left her alone with no explanation and no further conversation. Like a ghost he disappeared and left her questioning the man behind the voice she had known for almost three years.

Like the tide he had rushed upon her, threatened to suffocate her with his imposing presence. Just when she thought he would consume her, he drew back, retreated from her side.

She couldn't understand how in one instant he was there with her, a strong and commanding presence, then he was gone.

The mystery drew her in, the promise of something unlike the rest of her world. Insatiable curiosity piqued, once he was gone, she wished he'd return.

She realized how much she wanted to know him, how he gave her a single note when she wanted the full song. His love and knowledge of music was unmatched, a binding tendril woven into her dreams.

Eyes closed, she inhaled the heady scent of the garden around her and thought of how she'd hear his voice in the night, a soft, welcomed call when nightmares threatened.

_I'm here, no one will harm you,_ he promised. She still remembered fighting the veil of sleep and sensing him closer, pulling the covers up to her chin, smoothing her hair lovingly from her face.

And then, just when her eyes popped open, the angel was gone.

How had he become a threat? What once she had welcomed, anticipated in the middle of the night, turned to terror. Rumors swirled around the opera house, the whisper of a threat and a nameless entity. Dancers and stagehands exchanged horrible stories of a vile creature lurking in the night.

Christine sank to her knees and shivered. For three years he'd been by her side. Despite keeping his distance, he'd stayed near her, assured her in the night that she was safe and praised her voice when she sat for hours in the chapel and sang for him.

His voice had become the most sensual caress she had ever known. He sighed in frustration when she struggled to reach notes or turned pitchy, he growled with appreciation and hissed out a, "Yes," when she effortlessly hit each note. Her thoughts turned wicked in that chapel—a sure sign she would go to hell—for the desires thrumming through her mind over an angel.

Somehow he knew when she needed praise or a push to continue practicing. Each night, no matter if he nearly brought her to tears while he commanded her or if she swelled with pride when he told her she was progressing, he always told her the same thing:

"You are stronger every night, Christine, but you have much still to learn."

"Tomorrow night may I return?" she would ask, always afraid her angel would leave her.

Some nights he would answer immediately, others he would remain silent for a long moment as though evaluating her words and her worth. Each time her heart beat wildly, knowing he was correct. In those moments she thought she would die without him.

"You may," he would answer at last. "Sleep well, my dear."

He left her with the same kind words, sent her flying down the hallway, almost unable to tolerate a full day of dancing and studying before she could slip away and spend an hour with her Angel of Music.

Somehow she had forgotten him, erased the moments they had shared with the nonsense bubbling within the theater. She thought of his face again, that haunted, anguished expression, his sunken, sorrowful eyes.

"Christine," Erik had said to her within the cellar, meeting her eye for the last time. Tears had streamed down his angular cheeks and trembling lips. "I love you."

She had not returned the sentiment. Breath held, she turned and darted away, leaving him there alone. The angel who had always patiently waited for in the chapel, the man who quietly, respectfully looked over her in the night, she had left him behind.

Crouched outside the graveyard gate, she couldn't imagine feeling more hopeless. She felt as though she'd wasted many years of her life trapped in mourning, unable to move past the death of her father.

Now she mourned a man she had been too afraid to know. She forced herself to her feet and took a deep breath.

She couldn't remain stricken by grief, torn apart by her mourning. If Erik was gone, she would move forward in her life and with her love for Raoul. She was, after all, engaged to be married. She loved him dearly and knew he would be a faithful, adoring husband.

Christine turned her back on the graveyard and marched back toward the house. No more death. No more sorrow. No more Erik. The living waited for her.

Against her better judgment, she glanced back and caught sight of a white marble angel statue protectively lingering over the plots and mausoleum. With a carefully sculpted hand, the angel reached out, his robes billowing around him in stark white Italian marble.

He stood alone, a sentinel in the distance. Though his hood covered his face, she still saw the wan smile etched on his lips. Such a lonely creature, she thought, lingering amongst the dead.

Despite what the paper said, she couldn't help but think somehow, someway, her angel was still with her.


	17. Creating Monsieur Purcell

Erik tossed and turned throughout the night, unable to sleep with the possibility of selling one of his works. He struggled with the harmony being too simple, the melody incomplete and unsatisfying to the listeners. He worried the person playing his song would snort at what Meg presented for consideration. More than anything, he feared rejection and the inability to defend his work.

Twice he leaped out of bed and stumbled to his desk where he sat and squinted in the dark over a blank piece of paper. Each time, he discarded his next attempt at recreating the song he'd created earlier in the night. Once he managed to spill ink all over the desk and floor, he cursed under his breath, wiped off his hands with a towel, and returned to bed. There he stared out the window at the crescent moon and longed for the opportunity to play his music.

Even though attending, much less playing, wasn't feasible, he mourned another opportunity lost. His entire life seemed wasted and his failures were rooted in his miserable appearance.

When he grew bored lying awake in bed, he dressed and threw open the bedroom door. Standing just outside, Meg Giry released a strangled scream and placed her hand over her heart.

"My God," she said breathlessly.

He immediately drew back and cursed more loudly than appropriate. "What in God's name are you doing? Do you sleep in the hall?" he snapped, more out of utter surprise than anger.

"No, no I woke a while ago. Honestly, I suppose I never fell asleep."

That made two of them, he thought.

"Why are you standing here?" he asked, considering her quite fortunate he was not armed.

She continued to fan her face and took a breath. "I had an idea," she said, her voice still trembling.

"An idea?" He narrowed his eyes and turned his head to the side. "Pertaining to what, exactly?"

"You playing this afternoon," she answered cheerfully.

He gripped the door frame and shifted his weight. On the outside he remained stone-faced, but inside he felt his stomach tightened. If allowed the opportunity to play, he wouldn't waste it. However, short of playing in complete darkness, he doubted any plan would work. Clearly if he walked onto the stage in a mask he'd be apprehended at once.

"How?" he asked, attempting to harness emotion.

Meg took a deep breath and smiled. "There was a fire at the Opera Populair," she stated. He started to speak, but she immediately put her hand up and shook her head. "When the chandelier came down, you were too preoccupied with seeing several women to the nearest exit. Under such valiant efforts, tragedy struck."

He eyed her suspiciously, having no idea how this pertained to the audition.

"You were struck by a falling piece of the balcony and consequently suffered a very serious burn," she told him. "Therefore, as to not miss this most important audition today, you would undoubtedly need the burns covered with bandages."

"That would never work," he replied as he turned away from her.

"Why not? You have lived within the theater longer than I have and you certainly know the extent of costumes and disguises."

She was correct. A change of clothes—which more or less meant he found an ill-fitting pair of trousers, an old lawn shirt, and a waist coat far too big—would complete his costume. No more tailored suits and expensive clothing, which he didn't much appreciate, but if he wanted to look the part of a struggling musician, he would make due.

Besides, on the inside he was very much a struggling musician and composer.

"Your lifelong dream, after all, is to perform. Once they hear your story and your music, they will be touched and inspired," Meg added.

"And if they're not?"

"Small steps," she reminded him with a shake of her finger. "Not giant leaps."

He'd never been one for small steps. Throughout his life he'd taken blind leaps, acting without ever considering the consequences. From the time he was twelve he'd fended for himself, forsaking the rest of the world for an underground labyrinth to entertain himself. No one told him he couldn't stay up all night and dissect clocks, or sleep for the better part of the day like a bat and then return to building his organ, tuning violins, and drawing. Whatever he wanted to do, he did, and if he didn't feel like completing a project, he left his work to collect dust or discarded it altogether. He jumped as he wanted to and no one told him differently.

"How—" he started to question, but before he could finish, Meg grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him out of the room.

"Come with me!" she shouted. "I have some glue, a bit of makeup, some bandages, and old clothes. We'll transform you into Monsieur Purcell."

"Who?"

Meg bit her lower lip. "My mother's maiden name. I assumed you would like to choose your own given name since obviously Erik won't work, at least not for this, or with that spelling."

"Purcell will do," he replied. "For now."

She nodded and attempted to pull him down the hall by the arm, which proved completely ineffective considering how he towered over the meek dancer. She seemed undeterred by her task, and once she had managed to lead him down the stairs and into the kitchen, she released him and caught her breath.

Laid out on the table, she had an array of hues set out from eye pencils to flesh tones in sealed jars, to brushes dusted in powder for darkening the eyes. Set neatly in the corner, she had collected several long bandages.

Clearly, she had put a great deal of thought into her plan.

"Please, sit," she offered as she wrung her hands.

He did as she requested and took to a stool where he watched her rummage through the collection fit for a makeup artist in the theater.

"Where did all of this come from?" he asked.

"Mother," she answered without looking at him. "You should see the amount of costume jewelry and fabric she has stowed away."

"These things survived?" he questioned.

"Her sister is a seamstress," Meg casually mentioned as she opened several jars of foundation and dabbed her finger inside. "She stored the access supplies."

He cocked a brow but decided not to question theater materials stored off-site. In silence he watched her begin mixing colors with a small wooden paddle until she created a deep red.

"Now, in order to make your disguise convincing, I figured the burn marks could be revealed on the side of your neck. You need just enough makeup to pique their curiosity and make the injury look as real as possible, but not so much that the burns appear festering or grotesque."

"Grotesque," he echoed.

Meg chose to ignore his words. "Remove the mask and tilt your head up," she said as she turned to face him.

At once he drew back from her, his eyes wide at her request. "No," he said firmly.

"There isn't time for childish arguing," she pointed out.

"I said no."

She shifted her weight and lowered the tiny paddle she held between her thumb and forefinger. "I've already seen you."

He pushed the stool back into the wall and turned his face away. Seeing was entirely different than her laying her hands on him. The thought of her in such close proximity with her fingertips brushing his flesh, her eyes closely examining the scars…there was too much unbearable intimacy. The moment she touched his flesh she would regret her actions and shriek. Already he could see the paint splattered on the floor as she scrambled away from him.

"I can do this myself."

Meg took a step back and appeared bewildered by his insistence. "I'm afraid I don't have a mirror to bring into the kitchen," she said with a hint of annoyance in her voice.

He abruptly stood. "Then I will find one."

"Erik," Meg admonished.

A loud crack of metal against the wooden floorboards made them both jump. "Sit," came a stern, feminine voice.

Both Meg and Erik turned to find Madame Giry standing in the doorway with her hands planted atop her black cane.

"You don't know how to properly blend the colors for a convincing burn mark," she said as she eyed him. "You have an hour for your disguise and an hour to practice before auditions. I suspect you will want to spend this time wisely as to not draw suspicion from the rest of the theater."

Erik worked his jaw in silence, his heart thudding wildly at his choices. At last he eyed Meg and unbuttoned his shirt cuff, then rolled up the sleeve. "Show me how," he said with a nod. "Here."

Madame shook her head at his swift compromise. "Very well," she said before she turned and walked out.

Meg licked her lips. "You want me to teach you?"

"I want to see what the end result will look like."

Without argument she pulled up her chair beside him and told him to rest his arm on the table. She pursed her lips and reached for the candle at the far end of the table, which she turned on its side in order to drip wax onto a spoon. "This may be a bit uncomfortable," she said. "I'll allow the wax to cool a moment before I apply it to your arm."

"To create a bubbling effect?" he asked even though he clearly knew the answer.

"Yes, I wasn't sure what else to use."

He leaned to his side and watched as she settled the heated wax to his arm. The heat came as no surprise, the slight nip of discomfort replaced by almost pleasant warmth. Once the wax hardened, she applied a base first with her finger, then allowed the first layer to dry. She worked in silence, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing to make certain every detail was precise.

"Why not just a bandage?" he questioned once the silence turned uncomfortable.

She looked up at him and blew her bangs from her eyes. "Well, if the bandage were to come loose…"

"Someone would recognize…this."

"That is my biggest concern," she replied as she added color to make the blistering look convincing. Her blue eyes flashed up and met his sullen gaze. Immediately she forced a smile and blushed. "Being caught, I mean not…being seen as yourself."

He nodded but didn't reply as he watched her carefully work. She took her time and held her left hand on his wrist to steady him. Just like a ballet dancer on the stage, she was dainty and graceful, an artist of a different kind. Several times she paused, squeezing his wrist a little tighter, eyeing him as though she had taken something else into consideration.

Deep red and sickly yellow completed her creation, and after a half hour, she finally seemed satisfied. Once she finished, she sat back and nodded. "What do you think?"

He stared at the false injury and frowned. "Looks horribly painful," he admitted. "Purcell was fortunate he survived."

"Well, he spent a week in the hospital being tended for his burns, but of course he is a very bull-headed man and told the physician he simply needed to return home to write his music."

"Bull-headed? No, he's a true artist," Erik argued.

"Quite frankly I don't see a difference, but the physician was furious with him and told him he should be in bed resting."

"Inspiration doesn't come to a man confined to his bed."

"And that is precisely what Monsieur Purcell said," Meg told him with a wide grin.

Erik grunted. "I would not have expected little Meg Giry capable of such tall tales or remarkable work in creating such a horrid injury to a nice gentleman such as Monsieur Purcell."

She smiled at his teasing words. "I've had blisters on top of blisters from dancing twelve hours a day," she replied. "I'm no stranger to their appearance or discomfort. I sympathize with Monsieur Purcell."

Erik examined his arm and ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He considered Meg's words and looked up at her suddenly. He didn't want her sympathy, nor to think of her suffering. He needed this chance to become someone else, and when he met her eye, he saw something he'd never seen in another person's gaze: determination and trust.

With his breath held, he averted his eyes and slowly reached up. He swallowed hard, lifted his mask, and set it on the table.

"I've thought of a name," he said quietly, his words meant as more of a distraction than a need for conversation.

"And what name is that?" she asked as she placed her finger beneath his chin and silently requested he tilt his head further back.

Hands balled into fists, he closed his eyes and waited, wondering if she looked at him in repulsion or stifled her desire to vomit when she looked at him.

"Monsieur?" she prompted.

"Erik Rene," he answered. "E.R. Purcell."

"A strong name," she commented. "Rene. Do you know the meaning?"

He nodded ever so slightly. Ironically, Rene had been his father's name. How cruel fate seemed that the man who had sent him to his death had been given such a meaningful name.

"Rebirth," she mused. She placed her hand against the left side of his face. "Now please sit still, Monsieur Purcell. Wax first, then the makeup."

His rebirth would begin at the hands of Meg Giry.


	18. Anything for Her

Raoul returned to his estate after dark and hoped the carriage meandering down the drive didn't disturb Christine. After meeting with his surly uncle, he had no desire to speak with anyone. The old man had agitated him, which Raoul realized meant his uncle had won.

He'd spent the remainder of the day visiting the theater, meeting the conductor, and discussing the upcoming season with a handful of elderly patrons who knew his uncle. They seemed nonplussed by Raoul's presence and never once asked him about Christine or the Opera Populaire, for which he was grateful.

After a long day, he dozed in the carriage, waking only when the drive announced they had returned. He inhaled sharply, rubbed his eyes, and nearly stumbled onto solid ground.

"Are you unwell, sir?" the driver queried with a worried look etched on his face.

Raoul shook his head. "Tired," he answered.

Once the carriage pulled away, Donatien caught Raoul at the estate entrance and pulled him aside, his eyes dark and serious.

"What is wrong?" Raoul asked.

"With all due respect, Vicomte, the mademoiselle did not seem like herself today," Donatien said, keeping his voice low as though he worried other servants would overhear.

Raoul nodded, expecting his time away had affected Christine. "I left quite abruptly," he admitted.

"Yes," his servant agreed. "But I don't know if your swift departure is what upset her."

"Go on," Raoul prompted.

"She spent the morning near the graveyard."

Raoul furrowed his brow. "The graveyard?"

"She seemed quite distraught."

The Vicomte wiped his hand down his face and sighed. He regretted leaving her alone, if even for a day. She wasn't yet prepared to be on her own, and he had no doubt the monuments and headstones reminded her of her father.

Raoul rarely entered the back garden as he still couldn't bear to look at his own father's grave. He resented the responsibility that had come with his death and he hated unforgiving, stone proof that his father was gone. Years had passed since his father's untimely death and for a man of his age and station, weeping over his loss now would be considered inappropriate.

"She would not leave on her own," Donatien said suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

Donatien furrowed his brow and hesitated. "She was outside a good hour at least before I found her. When I approached, she didn't move or speak. Only when I shook her did she bother to look up."

Raoul's heart sank at the thought of such consuming sadness. He should have been the one watching over her, caring for her.

"I carried her back inside, Monsieur. She would not walk on her own. I left her in the solarium with hot tea, and when I went to check on her a short while later, she had retired to her bed."

Raoul's lips parted. "If you would be so kind, Donatien, I would like my belongings packed at once for a three-day trip to Paris."

His servant nodded and gave him a quizzical look. "And the mademoiselle?"

"Have her maid gather some belongings for her as well. I have a surprise for her."

Donatien smiled and nodded. "Very good, sir. You are a most gracious and thoughtful suitor."

Raoul patted him on the shoulder. "Thank you for telling me of her fragile state."

He could only hope a handful of days in Paris and the opportunity to sing once more would put Christine at ease.

oooOooo

Raoul tapped softly on Christine's bedroom door shortly after eight in the morning and found her already dressed and freshened up. Her face brightened the moment she saw him, and when she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, he couldn't help but laugh.

"You returned," she gasped.

"Yes, late last night. As much as I hated leaving you, I couldn't imagine a sweeter greeting," he said as he drew back and looked her over. Her eyes were still slightly red and puffy, a hint of dried tears.

"I missed you," she admitted.

"And I missed you as well."

"How did your meeting go with your uncle?" she asked him as they walked down the hall and toward the stairs.

Raoul was glad she turned away so she wouldn't see his look of disgust when discussing his uncle. "Better than expected," he lied.

"See!" she exclaimed. "What did I tell you? Everyone likes you."

He grunted. "For your kind words, I have a surprise for you."

Christine looked over her shoulder once she reached the bottom of the stairs. "Another surprise? You spoil me."

"You deserve the world," he replied.

Christine blushed. "You must give me a hint."

"A hint, Little Lotte? And what's the fun in that?"

She turned fully when he stood beside her at the end of the staircase and he took her hands in his.

"I take back what I said," she told him playfully.

"About?"

"Everyone liking you," she teased.

Raoul sighed. "Fine, my dear. How would you like to sing on opening night for a new opera house?" he asked.

Her eyes widened and she gasped. "A new opera house? Where? When? Tell me everything!"

"Calm down, Little Lotte," he said with a chuckle. "This is a small theater," he replied.

"I don't mind a small theater," she said, her voice bubbling with excitement.

"This is a fledgling project, I suppose. My uncle asked if I would manage his new business endeavor. Well, asked as in said I would be given the position regardless of whether I wanted it or not."

"You're being too modest," she said with a shake of her finger.

Raoul shrugged. "He also asked if you would like to sing and I told him I would ask you first. I assume by your reaction that you'd be willing?"

"Of course I would! How wonderful!" she exclaimed.

The way she brightened before his eyes made him smile and nod in approval. Music was part of her heart and soul and the mention of the theater clearly revived her in a way the estate could not.

"Auditions are this afternoon, which I have been asked to oversee" he explained. "If you would like to attend—"

"Yes!" she yelled as she turned to race up the stairs. Raoul barely managed to catch her by the arm. When she paused, she turned and gave him a quizzical look.

"I must gather my belongings," she said, sounding almost frantic. "If I don't pack at once, we'll never arrive in time."

"Done," he assured her as he brought her hand to his lips. "Everything has been taken care of on our behalf. Your dresses were packed late last night and anything else you may need I will purchase new. We enjoy breakfast and then we travel to Paris. I will not allow the slightest worry into your head."

"I cannot wait." Christine wrapped her arms around him and kissed him hard on the lips. "I cannot wait to be back in the theater. Thank you, Raoul. Oh, thank you!"

He twirled her around and laughed at her enthusiasm. He looked into her eyes and remembered how he'd spun her around on the opera rooftop, how carefree and in love she'd seemed in that one exhilarating moment. Nothing filled her with as much joy as the stage and performing and now he would share that gift with her once again.

"Anything for you, Christine, anything at all," he promised. No matter what, he wanted to make her happy.


	19. Assumed Identities

Meg paused at the front door and turned to face Erik. She took a deep breath and picked lint off his coat, which caused him to draw back.

"My apologies," she said under her breath. She pursed her painted lips. "I'm just…nervous and don't know what to do with myself."

He nodded in silence, afraid if he spoke she would know his nerves threatened to get the best of him. He clasped his hands, which she had loosely bandaged as part of his transformation into Monsieur Purcell, as she explained he would have most likely put his hands over his head to block falling debris. Her attention to detail in costuming impressed him, as did her enthusiasm for performing.

"Do you have your music?" Meg asked suddenly.

"Of course."

"Where?"

He showed her the papers he had tucked beneath his arm. "Do you honestly think I would forget this?"

Meg shrugged. "I honestly doubt you'd need it. You've already memorized the song, haven't you?"

"Forwards and backwards," he admitted.

Her smile widened and she stepped closer, examining her handiwork with makeup and bandages. When he saw her eyes narrow, he lifted his chin and stood very still, his breath held while she scrutinized him.

In a heartbeat he was returned to his childhood, a monster on display for his audience. He averted his eyes, heard the crowd jeer in his mind from what felt like a lifetime ago. So many people had laughed at his uncovered face, so many women shrieked in horror at the animal before their eyes.

His heart thudded, and as always, hope turned to fear. If one of the bandages slipped, if he were to lose part of his disguise not only would he be jailed and executed for his crimes at the opera house, but Meg Giry and her mother would be seen as accomplices.

"Ready?" she asked.

Her voice startled him and he inhaled sharply. "Yes," he said before he could harness his breathing. His hands continued to shake as he pulled his gloves from his pockets and flexed the supple leather.

Meg eyed him. "Are you sure?"

He needed this opportunity, the chance to start over with his music and forget the burden of being so in love his whole body ached. No matter the consequences, he would at least try. He felt as though he owed himself that much.

"I'm certain," he answered as he pulled up his hood and opened the door for her.

Their cab waited outside the door and the driver, an older man with a ruddy face and a mess of curly gray hair, greeted them with a nod and accepted payment upfront from Meg, who hopped effortlessly into the carriage and sat tapping her fingers on her thighs.

She looked perfectly suited for the stage with her hair pinned up, new dress, and makeup done to perfection. Why she appeared so nervous he had no idea, as all she needed to do was dance around the stage and sing a simple song.

He, on the other hand, had to hold the guise of being an entirely different person who had suffered from severe burns yet still had the strength to audition his own work.

Meg sat back while Erik sat forward and stared out the window, tapping his fingers together. He'd seen Paris mostly at night under the veil of darkness. Seeing the streets bustling with children running ahead of their mothers, groups of young men standing together laughing, and men driving wagons down the street was an exotic treat.

The sun was remarkably bright, the cobblestones damp from rain passing through in the middle of the night. The smells of freshly baked bread, coffee, and flowers from a small corner shop wafted into the cab, the scents of a bustling, living city he'd never been a part of in his lifetime.

Fear and excitement mingled, left his heart racing and body paralyzed by what existed outside of the cab. He wanted so badly to walk into the world and yet he feared how he would be received.

At least for a while he could be a different person, one who would instill sympathy rather than fear in others. With a new identity, he didn't mind the idea of sympathy. This new person—this better person—was deserving of a kind word. Monsieur Purcell would be everything he was not allowed to be, at least until his wounds healed.

Eventually the bandages would no longer offer a suitable disguise, and after that, perhaps he could continue the same false identity in another town or submit his work through Meg and remain unseen. In a few years, he could make an appearance and no one would know any different.

Then he would be himself again; scarred and deformed once more. Then the true challenge would begin.

"You're awfully quiet," Meg observed. She issued a worried look, which reminded Erik of how Madame would fret over him when they were younger.

"Rehearing in my head," he replied.

She continued to stare at him and shook her head. "You're worried about your disguise," she corrected. "I can see the worry in your eyes."

He sighed and shrugged. "Yes, and that as well."

"No one will notice," she said, her tone hinting at sympathy. "And I doubt anyone from the Opera Populaire will be at this new place. The venue is too small. Most of the performers would rather continue in a place like Vienna or even New York."

She was far too optimistic for his taste, but he nodded nonetheless and finally sat back. Left with only his thoughts, he continued to consider the possibilities and how something could go wrong. Throughout his life, he'd been proven right each time—something would go wrong.

His gaze flickered toward Meg, who sat perfectly happy across from him, still tapping her fingers and moving her lips to rehearse her song one last time.

He would have never guessed she'd be an ally or interested in his music. For all the years he'd known her, he may not have interacted with Madame's squealing, frantic daughter, but he was careful not to put her in harm's way.

Now he felt as though he were doing just that. Yet another mistake in his life, another way to hurt someone.

"Meg," he said suddenly as the carriage slowed.

Her eyes widened at the sound of her name. "What's wrong?"

He leaned forward and searched her face. "If something were to happen, if I was recognized—"

"You won't be," she blurted out.

He held out a gloved hand and silenced her with a stern glare. "If something were to happen, this is what you will tell them," he started again. "I found you and your mother days after the opera disaster and I forced you to do this."

Meg's eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"I forced you, threatened you into helping me again," he said. "None of this was done on your own free will, and if you dared tell anyone I existed…you feared the repercussions."

Meg's lips parted and she started to shake her head, but he reached out and grabbed her hand. The gesture startled her as much as it startled him.

"Swear to me."

For a long moment she stared back at him and visibly swallowed. "Monsieur," she whispered.

"There is no time for pleading words or explanations, Mademoiselle. You will swear to me right this minute," he ordered.

"No," Meg said under her breath. She squeezed his fingers and shook her head. "No, I will not do that."

"Meg," he warned. "You will not leave this carriage unless you swear to me. This was my doing, not yours."

She looked away and stared at the empty bench beside her. "Why? Why are you saying this?" she questioned.

"Your word, Mademoiselle," he growled.

"Promise me nothing will happen," she shot back.

She was a cunning little dancer, he thought to himself, smarter than he'd realized. He should have known that just like her mother, she would have the final word. Perhaps Madame didn't always express herself aloud, but she could cut a glance at him hiding in shadows that always made him draw back.

He should have listened to her warnings with greater care.

"I don't make promises," he said coldly. The carriage lurched to a stop, the wheels rocking backward.

Meg straightened, her lips forming a deep set frown. She smoothed her hands over her dress and lifted her chin in defiant fashion. "Then neither do I," she replied as she pushed him aside and opened the cab door.

oooOooo

There was a cloth sign with large black letters reading "Under New Management" at the theater. Simply called _The New Parisian_, the small theater boasted a large crowd of curious onlookers.

Meg pulled her hood over her head and walked quickly toward the entrance. She glanced back at Erik, who hustled across the street with his head down and music carefully tucked beneath his arm. Dressed in all black and with his hood low over his eyes, she assumed only his height would give him away and unfortunately there wasn't a thing she could do, short of lobbing off his feet at the ankles.

She worried about him backing out and fleeing across the street as she knew he was in a near panic over being spotted. Once he crossed the street, she trotted toward him.

"Quit worrying," she said firmly. "The more you linger at a distance, the more you draw attention to yourself. The Phantom would stay away, Purcell would not."

A head shorter than him, she peered beneath the depths of his hood and saw his lips twitch. That was as much of a response as she would get from him, she knew.

"This way," she instructed as she grabbed his forearm and led him into the theater. He didn't respond, but allowed her to pull him into the lobby and toward a set of gold framed double doors leading into the theater where a table was set up with two young men asking for the talent to please sign in.

The two men looked like brothers, most likely young men searching for employment who knew nothing about music and didn't care to learn. They were handsome enough with coal black hair, dark eyes, and swarthy complexions.

"Right this way, Mademoiselle," they both called as they noticed her.

Meg stepped forward, ignoring the ravenous looks in their eyes. Growing up in the theater, she recognized their interest and forced a smile.  
"Auditioning with original music," she stated.

"Sign your name legibly," the man on the right said, his eyes focused on her breasts. "Though I doubt any man would forget you."

"And you also need the name of the man playing the piano for me?" she questioned.

Judging by how their eyes widened and expressions changed, she knew Erik stood behind her, carefully guarding his singer.

"Gentleman," Erik said, his voice a deep threatening growl.

"Yes, of course," the man stammered. His brother dropped his ink pen and nearly dove to the ground to retrieve it.

Meg signed a false name for herself as well as Erik and turned, looking over the growing crowd of people who had come out to audition. "Let's have a seat," she said brightly.

"Coralynn Beaudeau?" Erik questioned as he leaned over her.

"Giry was too obvious," she replied. "Clearly they'll all recognize my name."

"You don't think they'll recognize you?"

"I was one of twenty ballet dancers," she reminded him. "I highly doubt they'll notice me from the others."

Again he said nothing and followed her toward the seats where she chose a place off to the side and away from the majority of the crowd. Three men sat together in the middle taking notes and she assumed these were the managers. With the stage lights and the dark theater, she couldn't see their faces but assumed they were deciding who would be hired for _The New Parisian_.

There was already a woman on the stage wearing far too much makeup even for the stage and yowling like a cat in heat. Her arms flailed about, her actions as careless as a fish flopping about on the deck.

"This should be easy," Meg said as she leaned toward Erik.

He grunted in response and finally seemed to relax. "Next," he said under his breath.

She smiled and nudged him with her elbow. "Shame on you."

Without turning her head, she felt him eying her. "You're not at all innocent."

"Then I suppose we make the perfect paring for an audition," she replied.


	20. The New Parisian Theater

Christine approached the theater on Raoul's arm. The streets were crowded, the entrance to _The New Parisian_ blocked by several men and women milling around.

All at once she remembered her stage fright, the adrenaline rushing through her veins as she peered out at the crowd. Thankfully the bright lights obscured her view, but there was no denying the cheers. Even as a child in the ballet she had felt that undeniable thirst for the stage.

"Is that the Vicomte de Chagny?" one of the men at the theater entrance questioned. He waved his arm over his head and excused himself until he stood beside Raoul and Christine. Fair-haired with hazel eyes and a handsome face, he offered a wide smile. "It is you! What in the world are you doing here?"

"Julien?" Raoul questioned.

"Surely you haven't forgot me," the man chided.

"No, no, of course not. Christine, this is Julien Archetto, a good friend of mine from school. Julien, this is Christine Daae, my fiancé."

Christine blushed at their introduction but offered a curtsy and her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Here for auditions?" Julien asked.

"Overseeing auditions, yes."

Julien nodded. "Ah, I see. Do you know there's quite the array of rumors fluttering through Paris wondering who is behind this new theater?"

"Someone with a lot of heart and high hopes, but not much experience," Raoul replied.

Julien laughed and playfully hit him in the arm. "Then that must be you, my friend?"

"Precisely." He dug out his pocket watch and checked the time. "Christine, my dear, if you'd like to go into the theater without me, I'll be a minute longer speaking with Monsieur Archetto."

"Are you auditioning as well?" Christine asked Julien.

The man shook his head. "Heavens, no. My place is in the theater seated a good distance from the stage," he replied. "My only talent is applauding the performers."

Christine nodded and excused herself. She hated leaving Raoul's side, but the theater called to her, beckoned her inside to watch the new talent. As quickly as she could, she scurried inside and took her seat in the middle a few rows behind three men with clipboards jotting down notes.

The theater smelled like stale smoke and stagnant air, but she didn't mind. Soon enough the building would be alive with performers backstage, ticket takers and ushers in the aisles, and theater goers clutching their programs as they waited for the show to begin.

She sat through three acts alone, two of which made her cringe. Bored by the third act, she looked around the theater at the others waiting their turn or waiting for any announcements. To her surprise, she didn't recognize a single person, which made her feel more out of place and insecure. She had hoped to see a dancer or musician she recognized but assumed most had gone on to other places.

"We have a Gertie Santellien next followed by Madame Coralynn Beaudeau and Monsieur Purcell."

A stout woman with the blackest hair Christine had ever seen stomped onto the stage and stood in the center. Her clothes appeared older and not in the best condition, her hair pulled back from her face. Her eyes looked tired, face haggard as though she had stayed up the night practicing.

Despite her appearance, Gertie Santellien belted out her chosen song with a much clearer and stronger voice than Christine and apparently the rest of the theater expected. She was met with applause before she once again stomped off the stage with the grace of a cow.

Christine watched Santellien exit the stage where she was met by two gentleman who seemed overly excited to speak with her. With some grooming, undoubtedly she'd find a place in the theater. She had a lot of talent but clearly not much experience, which would be remedied over time.

"An original song," the maestro declared from the orchestra pit. "Audition is for Madame Beaudeau singing and Monsieur Purcell playing the piano for his own work."

A young woman took the stage and Christine turned her attention back to the performance. The piano player ducked into the orchestra pit and the maestro leaned down to speak with him a moment.

Christine narrowed her eyes and stared at the young woman on the stage. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn the woman auditioning was Meg Giry. She matched her lifelong friend in every way from her slender stature, blond hair, and the way she carried herself. The only difference was Meg was a dancer, not a singer. She was always too timid to sing more than as part of the chorus and her voice just wasn't strong enough.

Madame Beaudeau stepped forward, peered into the orchestra pit, and nodded at the man seated at the piano.

"Monsieur, are you able to play with your hands bandaged like that?" the maestro questioned.

The singer whispered something to both men in the orchestra pit and the maestro popped his head out and looked at the three men sitting in the center of the theater. "I have been informed that Monsieur Purcell recently suffered burns to his hands, though he assures me this will not affect his performance." He turned back to the woman on the stage and nodded. "You may begin when you wish, Madame, Monsieur."

"Ready," she whispered to the pianist.

The pianist began playing and Madame Beaudeau started to sing. She had a pleasant voice and seemed confident on the stage, which sent the men a few rows ahead of Christine madly scribbling on their note pads.

"My apologies," Raoul whispered as he joined her in the theater at last. "How are you enjoying yourself?"

"Wonderful so far," she whispered. "Look at this woman performing," she said, nudging him with her arm. "Who does she look like?"

Raoul turned his head to the side. "That's Meg Giry."

"No, that's Coralynn Beaudeau," Christine corrected.

"A stage name, perhaps?"

Christine shrugged. "I doubt it. Meg never really sang."

"Then there must be a relation," Raoul argued. "The resemblance is uncanny."

"I know."

Christine balled her hands into fists and swallowed hard. Even though she didn't recognize the music, there was something oddly familiar about the song. Her skin prickled, her breath trapped at the back of her throat.

_Erik is dead_. She'd read those precise words, and yet somehow she felt as though this could have been his music.

Coincidence, she told herself, a twisted hope conjured only in her mind. Seeing this woman who looked like Meg in the theater was simply too much for her imagination.

The song ended, applause rang out, and the singer took her bow and paused at the edge of the stage. She reached down, briefly touched the pianist's hand, then walked off the stage.

"She was very good," Raoul commented. "Like that song was written just for her."

"Yes," Christine said. She slowly nodded.

The next performer took to the stage and was introduced. A tall, thin man with a face full of freckles and a shock of red hair wanted to show off his talents as a dancer. Christine watched him a moment before she stood and scooted her way past Raoul.

"I need a moment to freshen up," she said.

Raoul gave her a curious look but nodded. "Would you like me to come with you?" he offered.

"I'll be fine," she assured him.

He brought her hand to his lips before she walked away. "I love you," he said as he met her eye.

Christine smiled down on him. "And I love you."

oooOooo

Christine made her way to the back of the theater and stood against the wall for a long moment attempting to compose herself. People walked past her, though no one said a word.

On the opposite side of the theater, Coralynn Beaudeau rushed to the side of a tall, thin silhouette and embraced him before she jumped up and down and clasped her hands.

Meg had never shown such exuberance in the company of a man and Christine sighed, grateful to find another difference between this unknown singer and her friend.

She felt a twinge of sadness and wondered what had become of Meg and her mother. They had been her only family for so many years and she missed them both. With the prospect of a new theater, Christine hoped she would have another family; one with Raoul and another with her friends at the new theater.

Without thinking, Christine started toward Coralynn Beaudeau and the pianist, Monsieur Purcell. She brushed past meandering performers too busy looking over their lines or their music to pay attention to her. Once she reached the corner of the theater and started toward them, the performer on the stage bowed and left. In between acts, one of the men taking notes stood up and waved his arm over his head.

"Monsieur Purcell! A word, please!" he shouted.

Beaudeau and Purcell both paused. The pianist affectionately brushed his hand across the singer's arm before he strode away. Christine hesitated, watched him depart and wished he would show his face. She saw a hint of white beneath his hood and her heart stuttered.

A mask. She could have sworn he covered one side of his face. In the distance she watched as the man who had called for him smiled and offered his hand.

"Monsieur Norsett," the man said, his voice loud and rich. "Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Purcell, and even more pleased to hear your music."

Purcell hesitated and lifted both arms, showing bandaged hands. Christine furrowed her brow and saw him lift his hood just enough to show his face to Norsett, who frowned and offered a sympathetic nod.

"My apologies," Norsett said. "I would like to discuss your work with you if you have a moment."

Christine paused and took a breath. Of course that wasn't Erik in the theater. He wouldn't have come to such a place, even if he were alive. His music deserved a bigger venue and more high-class crowds. This would be beneath him.

She turned and looked for the woman who resembled Meg, but the singer had disappeared. Disappointed, Christine took one last look at the pianist and could have sworn he glanced in her direction.


	21. Love and Distance

The moment Erik heard his and Meg's assumed names, he froze and considered leaving the theater. Before he could move, however, Meg laced her fingers with his and pulled him from his seat.

"Your hand is like ice," she commented under her breath.

With his head down, he walked to the orchestra pit, nodded a greeting to the maestro, and took his seat at the piano while Meg walked up the stairs and gracefully stood on the stage. Her gaze swept over the theater seats, then she looked at him. There was terror in her gaze, her hands balled tightly into fists as she stood rigid. No one could see him in the orchestra pit, but everyone stared at Meg—and she knew it. He cleared his throat, garnering her attention if only briefly.

He pulled back his hood just enough for her to see him looking up at her and offered a closed-lipped smile.

"Sing," he said simply.

"I will." She looked from Erik to the maestro and took a deep breath. "I'm ready."

The maestro, however, pinned his gaze on Erik's bandaged hands and frowned. "Sir?" he questioned. "Are you able to play?"

Erik's shoulders dropped. He kept his eyes focused on the ivory keys and solemnly nodded. "An accident," he stated. "I was burned quite badly in a fire."

Meg bent at the waist. "He doesn't wish to speak of the incident," she whispered apologetically. "Too many harsh memories, I'm afraid."

"Oh, my," the maestro said. "Are you sure you are able to play?"

"Quite sure," Erik insisted.

The maestro turned, seeming flustered by this new information, and relayed the message to the three men taking notes in one of the first few rows. Once he received approval from the critics, he turned to Meg and Erik and told them they could begin.

Erik looked up at Meg. "Ready when you are, Mademoiselle." he said.

Meg nodded. "Ready."

His nerves steadied as he started to play and Meg began to sing. At first she looked terrified in the spotlight, but when she relaxed after the first few bars, her voice became stronger and her movements more natural. He could see her looking into the orchestra pit, awaiting his approval and he nodded, guiding her along.

Even though the theater was half empty, Erik imagined playing before a full house. He wanted to spend his time composing, but he found he enjoyed playing just as much and felt at ease within the orchestra pit. There he was just out of sight, yet still very much involved in the theater production.

The song ended all too soon, the crowd waiting for their turn applauded and Meg took her bow. She stood at the very edge of the stage and smiled when she looked at him.

When she reached out to him, he stood and leaned forward, briefly touching her fingers. Tears glistened in her eyes before she turned and walked off the stage, leaving him to watch her exit. Music in hand, he joined her a moment later on the side of the stage.

"How was it?" she questioned frantically. "Did we sound good? Did I sing well?"

"Calm down," he said, amused by her excited state. "You did fine. A little nervous at first, but you did just fine."

She threw her arms around him in a moment of exhilaration and bliss, which made him pause and draw back. Her excitement could not be denied and at last he embraced her back, sharing in her moment of happiness.

"Oh, I hope they liked us," she said as she jumped up and down.

"You did very well," he praised, attempting to even his tone. As much as he wanted to have his music accepted and Meg hired into the company, he had never been an optimist.

"We did well," she corrected. "You played beautifully. The whole song just…calmed me when I stood there."

"Monsieur Purcell!" one of the judges called. "A word, please."

His heart stuttered and he looked over toward the center of the theater fully expecting an entire line of gendarmes waiting for him. The man stood alone, his colleagues still furiously writing their notes.

"Go on," Meg prompted.

He turned and looked at her one last time. He gently squeezed her arm and excused himself, hoping the men were interested in hearing more of his work.

"Monsieur Norsett," the man introduced himself. He was round and bald with spectacles perched at the very tip of his thin nose. "Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Purcell, and even more pleased to hear your music."

He held out his hand and Erik frowned. "Forgive me," he said quietly as he displayed his bandaged hands. "I suffered a horrible accident only a few weeks ago. My hands are quite tender still." He pulled back his hood and watched Norsett grimace once he saw the bandages.

"My apologies," Norsett said with a great deal of sincerity. "I would like to discuss your work with you if you have a moment."

Erik felt his breath catch. "Yes," he said. "Yes, of course, Monsieur, whatever you would like."

Norsett nodded in approval. "Did you happen to bring any of your other compositions with you today?"

"Unfortunately, I did not, however, I have memorized most of my own work and would be quite honored to play for you," Erik answered. He clenched and relaxed his fists, unsure of whether his words made him sound like a pompous ass or a skilled musician.

Norsett's eyes widened. "What about your hands?"

"For my music, I would suffer any pain," Erik replied.

"That will not be necessary as I would hate to see such talent distressed."

"As you wish, Monsieur," Erik said politely.

Norsett seemed pleased with their exchange and smiled. "I believe we will be asking for more of your music at a later time, if not later today. If you would be so kind as to forward some of your original compositions to theater, we would be more than happy to review."

"I would rather play my own music rather than suffer the possibility of my work being misinterpreted," he answered. _Or stolen_, he thought.

"Yes, of course. I trust you will be staying, Monsieur, for the next two hours?"

Erik hadn't planned anything as Meg had taken care of the details. He had come only to play for her and now he had other reasons to stay—and hope for the best.

"Of course," he answered. Over the years, he'd come to enjoy the auditions for new productions almost as much as he enjoyed watching the manager gasp and mutter as he read Erik's notes regarding which performers needed to find a new occupation. "Watching the other auditions would be my sincere pleasure."

"Have you ever written a full production?" Norsett asked.

"I have attempted, yes," he answered uncomfortably, hoping Norsett wouldn't ask him about his full production since he couldn't mention Don Juan.

"Very well. We are interested in original work by new composers, Monsieur Purcell. This is, after all, the _New Parisian_ _Theater_. We are looking to entertain a younger audience, a more enthusiastic and open crowd. No more Mozart or Bizet filling the theaters with the same repetitive lineup. We want something all our own."

"You have innovative ideas," Erik answered.

"We want the girls on the stage to entertain, the music to leave people breathless, and performances to send all of France into an unstoppable frenzy. That will be the watermark of _The New Parisian." _

"Sounds like quite the endeavor. I trust you found my partner Madame Beaudeau sufficient as well?"

"I believe I did. We'll speak again before the end of the day," Norsett promised before he excused himself.

Erik awkwardly turned away once their conversation abruptly ended. He felt someone staring and watched a shadow walking down the aisle toward where he stood and expected it was Meg coming to ask what they had discussed.

The theater was too dark for him to make out her features and once he stared at the woman facing toward him, he wasn't so sure he was correct in thinking it was Meg. He turned from her, started down the aisle and toward the last place he'd seen Meg, intent on returning to their seats to wait until the end of auditions.

The next performer took the stage and he hurried along, unsure of which row they had sat in when they arrived. He surveyed the seats row by row, but Meg had disappeared.

There was no reason to panic, he told himself. He glanced around and discovered everyone had their eyes on the stage and not him, which allowed him a moment of solace. No one was looking for the Phantom. Erik was dead now, gone and forgotten. Purcell was within the theater and hopeful for a new opportunity. Purcell was no different from the rest, nothing more than a musician.

With a sigh he took a seat and sat back to watch the next performer. The theater could be his home again, a place where he could spend his evenings playing or watching performances before he retired to a real home. For the first time in his life he felt a sense of hope in thinking of a real home, a true home above ground, not beneath it like a tomb.

There would be no escaping down into a cellar and out of sight, no scurrying like a rat through the shadows to evade the rest of society. He would write within his own room, present his work, and listen to his songs or operas performed. He would be accepted and normal, a welcomed contributor to society, not a feared and hunted beast in the night.

He smiled to himself, surprised by the elation he suddenly felt. His heart belonged to music again and he would dedicate his life to the only thing he could love without hurting.

This would be enough for him, the missing piece that would feed his soul. He would have his passion again and now he would share his gift with others.

Meg returned to their seats and plopped down beside him. He could feel her staring at him and turned, wanting to tell her she had no reason to worry as Norsett had practically guaranteed they would be hired for the theater.

He turned to face her and found a different yet familiar woman staring back at him, her dark eyes wide, her face ghostly white. For a long moment he gawked at her, forgetting his disguise, forgetting his wits and his false identity. She was not supposed to be in Paris still. She was supposed to somewhere far away, out of his sight and out of his mind for good.

"Monsieur Purcell?" Christine said, turning her head to the side.

Erik turned his face from hers, the ache in his chest so painful he thought he would pass out from the turmoil. That life with her had vanished the night she had made her choice, when she'd pressed the engagement ring into the palm of his hand and ran off.

He swallowed hard and nodded slowly, afraid of what would happen if he risked a glance in her direction or acknowledged her with words.

"You are Monsieur Purcell, correct?" she asked.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," he said at last. "I apologize, but do I know you?"

Christine hesitated, her expression changing from curiosity to melancholy. "No, I don't believe so," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "I thought…I thought you were someone else."

His heart ached. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and frowned. He had been someone else to her, but that person could no longer exist. "Someone you think of fondly, I hope."

She seemed nervous, which was fitting as she always seemed slightly anxious in his company. Sometimes she appeared excited in his presence, other times wary of his temper or his passion for song and creating the perfect melody.

"An old acquaintance," she answered.

Nothing more than an acquaintance, he wistfully thought. That's all he would be to her, nothing more than a memory.

"He was a very talented musician who passed away recently, I'm afraid."

He turned to face her and bowed his head, ashamed he was reduced to little more than a talented, yet nameless entity. "My condolences."

Christine stood abruptly and backed away. "Thank you, Monsieur. I apologize for disturbing you."

"Are you auditioning?" he asked, fearing she would leave, yet still afraid she would stay. He couldn't love her the way he had before, couldn't continue to cajole her into his life. She deserved something better, someone better.

Words wouldn't make her stay with him. She stood and looked around as though searching for someone else. "Not today, I don't think," she said absently. She took several steps and turned to face him once more. "Your music…it was beautiful."

"Thank you," he said, but his words were wasted. She scurried off just as she had done so many times before. Always running, he thought, always leaving in fear. She was always leaving him behind because he was not fit to be seen in public with her.

"Christine," he whispered as she disappeared into the crowd.

He still loved her deeply even if his affection wasn't returned. He realized he would never stop loving her. No matter how close or how far she was from him, Christine would always have his heart.

But he was no longer the Phantom or just Erik. He was Purcell now and he knew nothing of Christine, the opera house, or her fiancé. The young woman who had approached him was nothing more than another musician in search of employment.

Erik was dead to her and this would be for the best.


	22. Pleading

_I'm so sorry I've taken so long to update. Promise I'll have another chapter up within a couple of weeks!_

Christine stood at the back of the darkened theater and attempted to collect her thoughts. Another performer took the stage, his voice threatening to drown out her own rampant musings.

She felt torn between mourning Erik's death, anger in meeting Purcell, and confusion in why her life seemed chaotic when it should have been perfect.

From a distance Purcell still resembled her former music teacher. She had looked back at him twice and felt her heart stutter. Those were Erik's broad shoulders and straight back. Those were his wide hands and green eyes.

But they couldn't be his because he had passed away.

His memory writhed within her, tightened her belly with the thought of his rich, smooth voice. The thought of him made her tremble at the memory of his hands on her shoulders, hot breath against her ear. His every move was exact, his every word hypnotizing. She felt as though she knew him intimately and yet still didn't know him at all and this crippled her.

She wasn't ready to return to the theater yet and face the feelings conjured up by the stage. Returning here reminded her too much of Erik and yet…she couldn't tear her mind away from Purcell.

His eyes were too familiar, too telling and yet…Erik was dead. She didn't want to believe the obituary, but holding up hope seemed futile. She needed to move on, needed to forget what they had briefly shared as her life was now with Raoul and she loved him.

She shuddered, recalling how she'd walked away only a moment ago and heard her name whispered.

_Christine._

This was not the first time she'd heard him call her, his voice filled with mourning. Goosebumps rose along her arms and she swallowed, unable to comprehend whether hearing her name had been little more than a voice in her head or him speaking aloud.

No matter what, he would always be the voice within her head, a whisper laced into her thoughts. Her knees threatened to buckle and she sucked in a breath, afraid she would faint at the back of the theater.

In the middle of the night when she cried herself to sleep, he was there promising the next day would be better. When she sat numb within the chapel, clinging to the last memories of her father, he was there with her, telling her that there would always be an angel by her side.

What a vicious, horrible lie he'd fed her over the years, what a terrible promise he'd made to her. Christine wanted to hate him, but she knew she'd left him first.

"Christine?"

She snapped her eyes up and found Raoul standing beside her. He started to reach for her hand but paused and drew back. She blinked at him, fighting against the disappointment she felt in her gut.

"Would you like to leave?" he asked gently.

In her heart she wanted to stay a moment longer and search for Purcell. She wanted to hear his voice again, see the expression in his eyes when he looked up at her. In the fraction of a heartbeat, she saw recognition register in his gaze—there was no denying that first moment when she caught him off guard.

Perhaps this musician was more than just Purcell. Perhaps he was less. Perhaps he had been burned in a fire; perhaps it was a fire he had started. There were too many questions, too many possibilities. If she walked away, they would go unanswered.

But questions would only lead to dissatisfaction. If she could release her childish dreams, she could be content.

Slowly Christine nodded and reached out to Raoul, allowing him to bring her into his protective grasp. She felt numb inside, the familiar ache that had haunted her in the aftermath of her father's death and more recently in seeing Erik's obituary.

Raoul guided her toward the theater exit and past throngs of performers chatting amongst themselves. They were dressed in their best costumes and jewelry, prepared to impress the three men hosting the audition. On the streets, they would appear as nothing more than ordinary citizens, but here they had the makings of kings and slaves, thieves and nobles. Here they could be anything or anyone they desired. That was the true beauty of the theater, created by false identities.

Christine couldn't help but think Erik had deceived her one more time. She just couldn't understand why he would do such a horrible thing and feign death.

But no, that wasn't at all true. She knew precisely why Erik would want Paris—and her to think he was dead. The moment she had left him, she'd made her decision and in that moment—or perhaps in the days that followed—he'd made a decision as well.

There would be no turning back, no second thoughts or reconsideration. In the most concrete way possible, he had conceded to her wishes and obeyed her desire for freedom. He had given her no way to find him again, as he no longer existed. There was no greater freedom he could offer—and yet the theater didn't seem the same without him.

There had been more years that she'd appreciated and looked forward to his company than feared him. He had once been comfort late at night, a soft voice lulling her to sleep. More than anything, she wanted that comfort back, but there was no turning back.

Tears threatened and she wanted to bolt out of the theater and never look back, but she was tired of running, of fearing the past and the heartache she couldn't shake loose.

Erik wasn't gone, despite what the newspaper claimed. He was there, sitting eight rows from the front in an empty aisle in the _New Parisian_.

And he was there with Meg Giry.

oooOooo

"Wait," Christine said as they stepped onto the street. She dug her fingers into Raoul's arm until he froze beside her.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He gripped her tighter, concern evident in his gaze.

"Nothing," she assured him. "I'm fine. I want to stay here."

He narrowed his eyes, seemingly unconvinced by her sudden change of heart. "Are you certain?" he asked as he placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye.

"Your duty is here," she said firmly.

Raoul frowned. "But my heart is with you," he offered.

Tears pricked her eyes as she considered what he meant to her—and how even looking him in the face she still betrayed his love for her. She loved him, but not in the way he wanted.

"I'll sit out of the way," she suggested. "Where I won't disturb you."

Raoul chuckled to himself. "You? Disturb me?"

"Go on," she prompted. Raoul hesitated and gently gripped her shoulders. "I'll be fine."

At last he nodded and guided her back into the theater. They were immediately accosted by several men vying for Raoul's attention in regards to business matters. He looked one last time at Christine before the throng of friends and patrons swallowed him up.

She stood alone for a moment and watched the crowd disappear down the aisle where they returned to their seats. Alone at the back of the theater, she scanned the rows, swept her gaze back and forth until she was certain she'd spotted him, her mentor, her teacher.

Despite the music and dancing on the stage, she tiptoed down the aisle as though she feared being heard. He stood with his back against the wall and arms across his chest. She could tell by his rigid posture that he was consumed by the music and not focused on the theater around him.

The closer she drew to him, the more her mind seemed to wander. She thought of waking in his underground home, the damp chill of the lake causing her to shiver as she woke.

The world around her had been a haze, a swirl of dreams melding with impossible reality. She vaguely recalled a masked man by torchlight, his voice soothing yet powerful. Despite not knowing precisely what he had said to her, she found his tone mesmerizing and wanted nothing more than to fall beneath his enchantment.

There he sat composing and playing his music, oblivious to her presence. She stood behind him only briefly, wanting desperately to know who this man was, this nameless person who had captured her heart with his song.

And then she had ripped the mask away and the fantasy had abruptly ended. Whipping around, he'd knocked her to the floor and he'd changed before her eyes.

More than the scars, his rage had frightened her. She didn't understand how a man who had struck her as so perfect and talented could suddenly change before her eyes. In that moment, she doubted she would ever find the man rather than the monster.

Once he turned away, however, she noted his sorrow. He had kept his back to her, harnessed his breathing, and stood staring at a mirror across the room. He didn't appear to notice her watching him, studying the sullen look in his eyes. With the mask in place he stood taller, but no more confident or at ease.

Without looking her in the eye, he told her to stand and gruffly said he needed to return her to her dressing room at once.

"Who are you?" she had whispered as she followed the mysterious man away from his home.

Erik had not freely offered his words, though considering the lengthy walk they had to take in order to reach the theater, he had chosen to speak over uncomfortable silence.

But a lifetime had passed since that night.

Christine now stood within several yards of the mysterious man named Purcell. She paused and pressed her fingernails into her palms, bracing herself for their encounter. She wondered how he would react when she called him by name, what he would do if she reached for him.

Unable to contain herself, she marched forward and stood over him, all the words she wanted to say to her mentor, her beloved teacher, stuck on the tip of her tongue. This had to be him. This had to be her second chance.

She wanted to whisper his name, but something about Erik had always left her breathless, barely able to utter a word. Their secret language was music and no one else in the world spoke it with such brilliant understanding as Erik.

With her heart racing, she reached out, intending to tap him on the shoulder. Her fingers barely brushed against his coat as he abruptly stood and turned on his heel. He whirled gracefully around and met her eye with a look of sheer surprise.

"Don't," she pleaded softly, unable to come up with a better start to the conversation. Desperation replaced curiosity.

He looked her overly slowly, his posture changing from Erik to his assumed identity of Monsieur Purcell.

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle?" he questioned coldly.

"Don't leave," she begged, her eyes stinging with tears.

Green eyes narrowed, turned cold as ice in a heartbeat. His gaze momentarily dropped before he stared at her with unwavering calm. "Don't leave you?" he questioned, his voice thick with irritation.

She didn't know what to say or how to react. Everything about him from his expression to his tone was hardened and intimidating, more phantom than angel.

Slowly she nodded, hoping his features would soften, that he would remove his fake bandages and take her hands in his.

"The way you left me?" he questioned.

Christine swallowed hard. She couldn't find the right words to speak, the correct apology to offer. He stared at her for a long moment before he shook his head and turned away, striding up the aisle without once glancing back.


	23. Life without Christine

Erik trembled as he stormed away from Christine. His heart thudded so hard he thought he would pass out, his legs threatening to give way. With each step, he regretted leaving her side, but she had made a choice.

And her choice didn't include him.

He had loved her with such unmatched passion, with so much of his heart that he sat alone for hours and imagined what his life would be like with her beside him. There were many months when he couldn't possibly consider her denying him, leaving him…fearing him.

They had music, beautiful, pure music. Notes laced their hearts together, bound them tighter than any other bond—or so he thought. He had assumed she would love him regardless of his appearance because she could see through to what he really was; an artist, a master of song. They were meant for one another.

But then, when the Vicomte de Chagny forced his hand, his world had fallen apart, his love for her shattering the moment she saw his face. He had hoped that their music lessons, the quiet moments they had spent together, would make her see past his ghastly appearance. He had ignorantly expected she would see his talent and not the scars, know his love for her and not his horrid face.

He didn't want to glance back at her, to long for the woman he had worshipped for too many years. She would never see him the way he desired, never love him the way he had loved her.

Christine had made her choice and he had obeyed her desires. He'd sunk lower than he thought was possible, starved and drained, sleepless and wounded. He couldn't bear to see her again, to hope that this time things would be different.

Erik made his way to the back of the theater and finally took a breath. He stood propped up against the wall and stared at the ground, still attempting to harness his emotions and breathing.

He needed to find Meg and tell her they had to leave at once. They could return later in the day to see which actors had been chosen for the upcoming season, but for now he needed to return home. Mentally, emotionally, he couldn't survive being this close to Christine and knowing she would return to her beloved fiancé.

Once he reached the back walkway, he paused near a throng of patrons and glanced around, hoping he could continue on his way without interruption. Meg, damn her, was nowhere to be found and he hoped she had decided to step outside for fresh air. Weaving his way through the crowd, he squinted once he reached the blindingly bright entrance.

Steps away from the door, something pushed against his shoulder and he collided with the wall. His first instinct was to cover his face and sink to his knees, but he caught sight of a small figure beside him and froze, waiting for her to pass.

To his surprise, she shoved him again, but not nearly hard enough to make him move. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Christine beside him, her face twisted in anger and eyes swimming with tears.

He stared at her for a long moment, unable to comprehend what she was doing or why.

"Christine," he whispered, pleading for answers.

She blinked at him, gently grabbed his bandaged wrist, and guided him effortlessly through a doorway and into a musty coatroom crammed with odds and end. Reams of fabric blocked the window while cobwebs hung from the corners. Once they found themselves alone, he straightened his spine and glared at her.

"Is this a trap?" he growled. "A way for your precious fiancé to claim my life at last?"

"No," she answered. "No, of course not."

"And why should I trust you now? After everything that happened?"

"Do you wish to discuss everything that happened?" she blurted out, her anger flaring. "There is a great deal we could discuss, _Erik_."

She had never spoken his name before, but now she spit out his given name as though it was poison.

Christine hesitated, her dark eyes sweeping over him briefly before she whirled around and strode to the door. His heart stuttered as he watched her, fully expecting her to pull the door open, storm out, and slam it behind her.

Instead, she turned the lock and spun on her heel to face him again. She crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes, her face crimson.

Erik grunted as he watched her display. "Ah, Christine, you truly amuse your former teacher," he said coldly, refusing to give in to desire to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness.

"I wanted to see you again," she said breathlessly.

"Did you?" he sneered as he reached for the bandages covering the right side of his face.

Christine's hand shot out toward him. "Not like that," she said quickly.

"Oh, but of course not," he said sarcastically, summoning all of his anger into his words. "You've had quite enough of the monster, haven't you, Christine? Why would you ever want to view the beast again? How in the hell would an angel such as yourself ever stomach another glance at the devil?"

"Stop it," she ordered. "Don't twist my words."

He offered a humorless smile and mocking bow. "Then by all means, my dear, speak."

She blinked at him, her features softening until she looked just as he had always pictured her—an image of beauty and innocence. Just when he wanted to discard his feeling for her, in one glance she threatened to draw him in again.

"Where did you go?" she questioned.

_To hell_, he wanted to answer, to the very bowels of hell where he'd sat suspended for days. Without her, he couldn't bear to eat, sleep, or function. Every reason to live, to write music, to exist…she had taken away his life.

But he couldn't bear to tell her how he truly felt, the pain he'd suffered as he knew his actions made her suffer as well.

Erik settled for a bitterly voiced, "Away."

"Why?" she whispered.

"What would you care?" he seethed. "You made your choice."

Her features crumpled. "And I was heartbroken when I read the newspaper!" she exclaimed.

"Were you?" he said dryly. "Were you absolutely heartbroken?"

"I loved you," she blurted out. She inhaled sharply as though to suck her words back in, but there they hung between the two of them, unable to fill the gap left by weeks of absence and lies.

Erik stared at Christine, refusing to believe she spoke the truth. If she had loved him, she would have stayed with him. To hell with redemption. To hell with mercy and compassion. He had wanted to share his life with her, but she had made her decision.

No matter how much he wanted to believe he possessed beauty, a woman such as Christine needed beauty she could touch, not just hear. She was above him. She would always be a world away, heaven above his hell.

Yet, how close he had come to salvation.

Looking at her now, he swore he could still taste her lips on his, feel the unfamiliar warmth of her embrace. He had waited a lifetime for a moment of happiness and that is what Christine had provided—one single moment and nothing more.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" she asked as she stood with her hands balled into fists and determination in her eyes.

"What would the diva command?" he asked.

Sadness filled her eyes. "Honesty," she whispered. "Something I now think you are incapable of offering."

His lips parted in shock. "Do you want to know why I had the obituary run?" he asked as he stalked toward her. "Do you want to know why those words were fitting? Because I did die, Christine. The moment you returned the ring and left me there, I had no desire to live another day let alone a lifetime. If you want honesty, then this, Christine, is the most brutally honest answer I can give."

"Erik," she whispered.

"I thought you were unlike anyone else," he said, ignoring her pleading tone. "I thought at last I had found someone who could see more than a ghost…more than a face." He sucked in a breath. "Hardly a face, you said, even in the darkness. That's what you told your beloved vicomte."

Christine closed her eyes and tears streamed down her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them away or ask him to stop speaking.

"I was made ugly, Christine. I know this, I have always known this…but there is beauty as well, I swear it," he said, his voice so low and filled with emotion he could barely hear himself speak. His heart thudded wildly, his hands trembling as he thought of how much he loved her, how much he had hurt her, and how he still desperately wanted to tell her he cared still.

"I know," she said, her voice little more than a squeak. She finally opened her eyes and brushed the tears away with the backs of her hands. Weeks before he had seen her just like this; tears streaming down her cheeks as she looked sadly at him for the last time.

He exhaled hard, a thousand words racing through his mind. Nothing seemed to fit precisely how she made him feel—how she would always make him feel.

"That's why I needed to see you once more," Christine cried.

"No," he said sharply, which seemed to startle her. "I cannot do this all over again."

"Erik," she pleaded.

"Christine," he said sadly. Never in his lifetime did he think he would be the one to walk away from anyone, least of all the woman he would always love. No amount of time would ever make him stop. He couldn't picture his life complete without her beside him—and yet he had to imagine himself alone to keep the last scrap of his sanity.

She frowned, but her eyes still appeared hopeful. Her expression made him wonder if this is how he had appeared before her that terrible night; crestfallen yet still clinging to hope. He had wept like a child, wanted to fall to his knees and disappear from the world. In anger and sheer agony, he had destroyed the long mirrors mocking him, displaying an imperfect man desperate to be an angel.

Just when he thought he would perish, he somehow managed to take another breath, exist another day.

"I just wanted to see you once more," she pleaded.

"You have already seen me," he whispered. He tapped on the bandages covering his right cheek, fully expecting her to recoil in horror and run away for good.


	24. Never Let Go

Christine refused to back down or turn away from Erik. She found herself appalled by his words and accusations, though she understood why he was angry and hurt.

She wished Erik would understand how she felt inside. Never in her worst nightmares had she ever expected to choose between two men she loved for different reasons.

"You're right," she said bravely. "I have seen you. And I kissed you."

"Before you left for good," he reminded her coldly.

Her anger flared. "You made me choose," she pointed out. "If you hadn't…"

He glanced up at her quickly, a bewildered expression on his bandaged face. "I would not have won your heart. Do not act as though now you can change the past, Christine."

"Will you look forward for once?" she challenged him. "All of my life I have done nothing more than hide in my past, wishing for my father to be with me again, wanting a dream that cannot ever be lived. I've nearly driven myself mad thinking of what I would say to him or what my life would be like with him still alive. I don't want to spend the rest of my life mourning another person dear to me."

Her words paralyzed him. She could see the disbelief in his gaze, the way he carried himself as though he already assumed she would turn and leave for a second time.

"What are you doing?" he asked under his breath.

Christine offered a tentative smile. "I should ask you the same thing," she retorted, keeping her tone soft. She knew his quick temper well, how a man who could be as gentle as a lamb could turn into a tiger. He always felt as though he needed to defend himself, even when there was no immediate danger.

Often times she wondered why he felt this way, but she had never been given the opportunity to ask him.

He took a while to answer, his posture rigid, his eyes averted. "Auditioning," he said at last. "Pieces of my work," he added.

"You're writing music again?" she asked.

"Attempting, yes," he answered. "There are certain habits I suppose I cannot live without."

"Me neither," she answered with a sigh.

His expression changed and he cleared his throat. For such a tall and powerful man, he appeared defeated. "I cannot be this close to you, Christine," he said, keeping his voice low. "My feelings for you are not what they should be."

Even though she longed to hear him say he still loved her, she still felt a sense of overwhelming trepidation. What if he _did _still love her? Where would they go? What would they do? How would she ever explain herself?

Throughout Paris he was considered a monster and she was his prey. If she returned to him, they would both be questioned.

"Please explain to me what your feelings should be," she requested.

"I feel like ivy twisted up the side of a house, so tangled and gnarled over time there is no sorting out the old leaves from the new," he said. He swept his hand over his hair and stared blankly at the floor. "I feel as though in one moment I'm drowning in my own despair and elation, the next struggling for semblance. Right when I thought my life would finally have meaning, I find I am consumed all over again."

He took a step toward her, but in his eyes she saw a hint of anger.

"You are the only person in the world who can undo me, Christine. I welcome and fear what you will do to me."

Unshed tear drops clouded her eyes.

"Every time I pass the hall mirror, any time I glance at my reflection in my room, I am reminded of my actions. Do you know what it feels like to be afraid of looking yourself in the eye because you cannot bear the person staring back at you?"

He was such a wounded man deep inside, a brilliant artist shunned by the rest of the world. Her heart broke for the horrible life he had lived, for all the people who had mistreated him—including herself.

"I will not relive those days or become that person again, Christine. The paper was quite correct, my dear. Erik is dead. He died the moment you left him. He will never return."

"You blame me?" she asked, the breath stolen from her lungs.

He looked far too calm, a man who had found resolve in his words. He clasped his hands and took a breath. "I spent far too much of my life deeply in love with you. Over the last few weeks I have learned I am to blame."

"You're saying you don't want to see me again?" she asked.

The hurt in his gaze was almost unbearable. "I am saying that if we spent a thousand years side by side, I would never have enough time spent with you," he answered. "The way I feel about you defies all description and reasoning. I would go without food, sleep…air…anything for you." His lips quivered, his eyes glassy as he turned away. "I had to die. I couldn't live without you."

"Please don't turn your back on me," she whispered, unable to find her full voice. "If this is it, if this is all we may have, then allow me to say good-bye as I should have the first time."

Patiently she waited with her arms at her side and her throat painfully tight. She watched him slowly turn and face her, his eyes cast down, a track of tears down the left side of his face.

She recalled how he had appeared at the New Year's celebration and presented his opera. With one glance in her direction he had made her heart stutter as he captured her with his light eyes.

He had appeared as red death, his green eyes ringed in black, a mask of bone covering his face. When he stalked toward her, she had silently willed him to take her by the hand and allow her to disappear with him again.

What a beautiful and mysterious fantasy he had been to her, just as enticing as a shiver, like walking through shadows with her heart racing even when she knew there was no immediate danger.

Christine took a step forward and placed herself within arm's reach of him. He stood too far away for her liking, much too distant to feel the heat of his body or his firm grasp roving over her arms or across her throat. Silent and still as a statue, he waited like a mourner listening to the final good-bye at a funeral.

"I didn't want you to die," she said. Within the grave yard she had spared his life, begged Raoul not to issue a final death blow the moment Erik fell on his back.

On the stage, when she should have stepped back and allowed the gendarmes a clear shot in the middle of the opera, she had stayed beside him.

Now she knew why. She still needed him in her life—she just didn't know how or why.

Erik made no remark and didn't move, which left Christine to wonder if he hung on her every word or if he simply waited for her to finish and leave.

They stood in silence for a long moment. So many thoughts flitted through her mind, so many unspoken words knotted on her tongue.

"I never wanted to hurt you—"

"I know," he blurted out. He took a step forward and looked at her with regret replacing his anger. He held his hand in a tight fist, which he gradually loosened. "I know," he said softly as he reached toward her, fingers splayed as though he simply couldn't resist touching her face one more time.

"Please," she whispered, reaching for him.

She swallowed hard, held her breath, and waited for his outstretched hand to take hers. For one moment in time, they were suspended together, the sounds of the theater muffled, her heart thundering, her every hope pinned on him speaking to her one more time.

Just as he had said, there would never be enough time for them to spend together. With how she felt about him, a life time seemed far too short.

"Oh, Christine," Erik whispered.

If he asked her to take his hand, Christine knew she would link her fingers with his and fall willingly into his embrace.

And she would never let him go.


	25. The Truth and the Past

Erik fought the urge to reach out to her, afraid that one moment of hope would be dashed by bitter reality. He forced his hand down, forced his heart to settle when he truly wanted it to run wild.

She was sincere in her words, but he knew kindness was not long-lasting, especially not toward a creature such as himself. Perhaps the music in the background bewitched her, perhaps the thrill of being swept away into their dark fairytale enticed her.

He couldn't bring himself to believe she truly cared for him. Too many times before he had thought he'd seen wonder and love in her gaze, but had found out that he was incorrect. Her fear had never turned to love. No one was capable of being in love with him.

She was too perfect a woman, too innocent and angelic. She deserved something more, someone better.

"You're not here alone," he said quietly.

Christine wiped away the rest of her tears. "I'm here with you," she said.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," he argued impatiently.

Her shoulders dropped, posture indicating defeat. "No, I'm not here alone," she told him. "But I don't have to leave with him."

"With your fiancé?" he asked. "Whom you have taken up residence with in his estate."

"How did you know that?" she gasped.

He clasped his hands behind his back to prevent himself from touching her. "I didn't until now."

She looked frustrated with him. "You're a coward," she accused. "Pretending you don't care for me one bit when you know…" her voice trailed off. "I can feel it in the air."

He stood rigid, wanting to tell her he did more than merely feel the electricity between them. With each breath he smelled her perfume and with each glance in her direction he recalled the feel of her soft flesh beneath his gloved hands. Every time she spoke she allowed him one more moment to memorize her voice and the acute pain that would accompany her departure.

"I've been honest with you," she added. "Why won't you say anything?"

"Because you make petty speech unbearable," he said. "What can I say to you that would not be a waste of breath?"

He turned away from her and cured himself. Words had never been his strong point, least of all when spoken. He had sent plenty of notes over the years, not all written in the most amiable nature.

Music was his best form of communication. What he couldn't say with words, he could tell her from the depths of his soul note by note. If anyone would understand that language, it would be Christine. As much as he wanted to push her away, he knew that no one in the world would be able to hear him the way she did.

"Tell me anything," she suggested, her voice so low he could barely hear her. "Anything at all."

_I love you_, he wanted to say. With his eyes cast down, he turned to face her and stared at her boots. Taking a deep breath, he looked up to meet her eye and found her standing impossibly close.

"Why?" he asked.

She looked surprised by his vague question. There were too many answers he sought, too many questions he'd asked himself over the last few weeks.

"I-I don't understand," she stammered.

"Why did you kiss me?" he forced himself to ask.

Christine blushed. "Because I cared for you," she answered. "Because I still care for you now as well."

"Pity?" he demanded. "To save your fiancé?"

"Yes," she admitted. "For every reason you could possibly imagine. I did it because I saw how alone you were, because I feared for Raoul's life, and because I cared deeply for you. I kissed you because I wanted to." She stepped in closer to him, so close he could feel the heat of her body. "And do you want to know something? Do you want to know what I regret?"

His chest ached, devastation pounding through his heart like a stake driven through his body. He made no attempt to nod let alone speak. Just as he knew, there were no words to offer.

"I regret returning to you that night and giving you back the ring," she said, her voice strained with emotion. "I regret that I didn't ask more of you over the years. Most of all, I regret that you never gave me reason to stay."

"Reason?" he murmured.

"How many years passed before I saw your face?" she questioned.

He pulled away from her. "When you saw me, you recoiled."

"You led me away after my performance, you took me away from everything I knew without warning," she argued. "What did you expect from me in the grasp of a stranger?"

He gawked at her, realizing she was correct. "I didn't know what else to do," he admitted. "I knew what would happen once you saw him again. I didn't want to lose you."

"Why didn't you just speak to me?" she pleaded, clearly frustrated with him.

"Because I knew the moment you saw me, you would turn away, Christine, and I was correct. This face…"

"The face of a stranger," she told him. "Not a dear friend, not a suitor, but a total stranger. That is what frightened me the most. I had no idea what your intentions were or where I had been taken. If you had said your name, if you had told me who you were…"

Erik hung his head in shame. "A circus freak," he said under his breath. "Unwanted by my mother, traded for a mule by my own father when I was just a boy," he said without looking her in the eye. "Your father, Christine, he loved you, didn't he?"

He saw her head dip further down.

"Mine didn't. Neither did my mother. She would run away from me and tell me I was a monster. My father would tip my chair back at the table and laugh when I fell on the floor. I thought leaving their home would be a blessing, for surely life could be no worse," he told her with brutal honesty.

She didn't reply, but he hadn't expected words from her. He knew there would be complete silence, as what he said was beyond anything she'd ever heard before.

"There were many aspects that became worse, but do you know what made my life tolerable? I learned to play the violin by watching others," he said, recalling how he was mesmerized by music and envious of those who could play. "When I was freed from my cage, I found myself surrounded my music…"

Christine took a shuddering breath, which made him grunt.

"An iron cage," he told her, his tone filled with venom. "A cage fit for a tiger. Oh, and I was labeled a dangerous beast, the son of the devil, they said. Found in a deep, black hole with singe marks on my clothes, they told people when they entered. Beaten twice daily for the purpose of entertainment, Christine, spit on when they walked away. You should have seen the crowds. You really should have seen them."

Erik struggled to meet her gaze, his vision blurred by tears. He refused to allow a single one to fall. That life had hardened him, not weakened him. He had learned to clench his jaw, hold his breath, and grow numb while onlookers stared at him. He'd learned to shut out the world, to block out sight and sound until the crowd shuffled away and the laughter and shrieks ceased. Twice daily, he mastered the art of leaving his body behind.

"That's who I was," he said, his voice still hollow. Other than Madame Giry, no one knew his past and that was how he preferred it. "Not a day of my life has passed without doubt, without looking behind and expecting to be dragged back into that hell. I know the consequence of being seen and I have chosen to disappear. The world has never wanted me and I realized I didn't want the world either."

Unexpectedly Christine took his hand in hers. She laced her fingers with his and grasped hold of him with greater strength than he could have imagined.

"Who are you now?" she asked.

He exhaled and stared at their joined hands. Earlier in the day he'd felt quite confident that he was a different man at last, an artist focused solely on his music. Seeing her again had changed him, reversed the tide once more.

"If only I knew," he answered.

Christine searched his eyes. She reached up with her free hand and gently touched his left cheek. "You don't look like a Purcell to me," she said. "But perhaps I've just grown tired of your new moniker."

"What do I look like to you, then?" he asked bitterly.

She thought a moment, then a wide smile spread across her lips. "Like an Erik," she said thoughtfully. "I like that name much better than Purcell. And I am so grateful you aren't dead. I truly am grateful you're here and safe."

He looked down at her, knowing his happiness was fleeting. When it came to Christine, he had given into his romantic side, believed with all of his heart that he would find not only true love with her, but acceptance and friendship.

In a way, he longed to just have someone to speak to well into the night more than a physical relationship. He had enjoyed her company more than anything, a moment to share part of his heart even if they only talked about music.

Then again, all he had was his music. Aside from their one kiss shared in a chaotic moment, no one had ever been intimate with him. Not even his own mother had kissed him or embraced him.

"What now, Christine?" he asked sadly as he focused on how beautiful and delicate her hand looked in his. Even if she walked away a second time—a final time—he felt more at peace speaking with her. Perhaps now she would know why he had deceived her, why he was certain she would not accept him for his miserable self.

"Will you speak with me again?" she asked.

"When?" he asked, feeling as though his breath had been punched from his lungs.

"Tomorrow. The following day. Whenever you wish."

"Where?" he managed to question.

She looked around the dusty room. "Right here."

He couldn't stop himself for feeling hopeful and renewed. For the first time in his life, someone had asked to be in his company—and it was none other than Christine Daae.

"Tomorrow. Here," he confirmed, feeling a rise of panic cause his heart to stutter.

Christine nodded. "Noon," she said. Without another word, she smiled, turned, and unlocked the door. Just before she pulled the door open, she glanced back. "I will see you tomorrow, Erik."

He stood alone for a long time after she left, convinced this had to be a dream, certain his name had never sounded sweeter on anyone's lips…and wondering what she would tell Raoul de Chagny.


	26. Whirlwind

Christine's heart fluttered as she counted to ten and opened the heay wooden coat check door. Erik had instructed her not to risk a glance back in his direction, but she couldn't help herself. Taking a deep breath, she looked over her shoulder and found he had once again disappeared.

She blinked and held her breath, unsure of how he had made his exit.

"I will see you tomorrow, Erik," she said, lingering a moment longer to see if he was still nearby.

Once Christine started to lose hope that her mysterious teacher had heard her, Erik reassured her again.

_Christine…_

And there he was, the voice in her head, the man always within her heart. She smiled to herself and quickly walked out of the coat check room and into a throng of exiting actors, actresses, and musicians. The smell of tobacco and perfume swallowed her up, swirling around her in a nauseating mix.

Christine slowed her pace. Her legs felt suddenly weak, her heart racing so fast she could barely breathe. Knowing that Erik was alive and that he had found her again was almost beyond comprehension. In her life, there had been no second chances, only the cruel, stark reality of death and abandonment.

This had to be a blessing.

The people around her issued furrowed brows and hard stares as they bustled onto the city street, leaving her still dazed. Once she was pulled onto the street by the crowd, the chill in the air made her shiver and return to her senses.

"Christine!" a familiar voice called out.

She paused and whirled around, searching for the source.

"Christine!" Raoul called out again as she briskly made her way through the theater crowd and toward the rows of seats. As always, she was heading away from the rest, on a path set by her damnable heart.

The sound of her fiancé's voice made the young soprano pause, her pounding heart seemingly lodged in her throat. She swallowed hard and searched for his face in the crowd.

"You will never guess who I just saw," Raoul said once she was at his side. He took Christine's hands in his and smiled down at her.

Immediately Christine felt her breath hitch. Her mouth went dry as she considered her secret, heated meeting. Raoul's tone was far too cheerful to be speaking of Erik, but still…she only shrugged in response, afraid one word would give her secret rendezvous away.

"Meg Giry!" Raoul exclaimed. "Here to audition. Can you believe it, my dear? She was equally surprised to see me, as you would imagine."

Christine furrowed her brow. "You saw Meg? When?"

"A moment ago. Said she was waiting for her cousin, I believe. I told her there was no need for her to audition, of course, being that I've become the head of this asylum." Raoul smiled devilishly, his blue eyes boyish and twinkling with mirth. He let out a boyish chuckle and appeared absolutely thrilled by their encounter.

"I wish I would have seen her," Christine said absently.

Raoul looked mesmerized still. "This theater will have a bit of magic on its stage with two very talented leading ladies, don't you think?" He rubbed his hands together and chuckled to himself. "And my uncle thought I was his very last resort—and a failure. Ha! We'll show him a thing or two, won't we my dear? Just think of it, Christine, you and Meg performing together."

Christine felt herself blush at the thought of a third person within the theater, a man Raoul would have no desire to see again. Christine wasn't sure if it was her encounter with Erik or the smell of the musty theater and an array of perfumed women waltzing by that made her stomach flip. In the back of her mind, she knew the churning in her gut was neither.

"We should leave," she said abruptly.

Raoul's expression immediately sobered. "Is something the matter?" he asked, his brow knit with concern.

"I don't feel like myself," she blurted out.

The vicomte searched her face and slowly nodded. "Too much excitement for one day," he said as though he knew her limits and what excitement she had experienced.

Christine didn't bother to argue. Raoul felt as though he knew her and he wanted to do what was in her best interest—but he didn't know her. If he'd honestly, truly known her, he would have looked her in the eye and caught the hint of a lie in her gaze. He would have smelled the unfamiliar musk of a man on her flesh, known the fire just beneath her cheeks was the flair of passion stirring in her blood. He would have known she hid a secret from him.

Raoul de Chagny knew nothing of her; least of all that she stood at his side and lied to her face—which made Christine feel as though she didn't know herself, either.

"Raoul," she started.

He smiled gently and took her hand in his. Always eager to please, he offered a quick smile. "You do not need to say a word, my dear. I'll send for the carriage. Wait right here, my sweet Little Lotte."

Before Christine could interrupt him, he turned and jogged off, disappearing into the crowd once more. Lingering behind, she glanced back at the stage and saw the curtain move ever so slightly and briefly take the form of a man. She watched curiously, waiting for a sign, a hint that the form was Erik and that he was still watching her, waiting patiently for their next encounter.

Tomorrow at noon, she reminded herself.

Raoul watched Christine carefully on their return home. He noted the way she decided to sit across from him in the carriage rather than beside him. He studied the way she caressed the fabric wall and gazed blankly out the window. He recognized the slight smile on her pink lips, the blush in her cheeks, and the way she pulled a tendril of hair from her face.

She was distant and in thought, perhaps contemplating the past when all he wanted was for her to think of the future.

"Christine," he said suddenly.

Her eyes widened as she looked at him, clearly surprised that he was in the carriage with her.

"You haven't said a word in over an hour," he pointed out.

Sheepishly she played with her jewelry. "I apologize," she whispered.

"Perhaps it would be best tomorrow if you stayed home," he suggested. "Rest yourself."

Christine sat up straighter and shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine."

"An hour ago you couldn't leave the theater fast enough," he pointed out.

She pursed her lips. "I was hoping to sing," she blurted out.

Now it was Raoul's turn to sit up straighter. "You want to audition?" he teased.

"I need to practice," she said, her tone turned harsh. "If I don't sing, my voice will become weak. You know I never finished…"

He stared at her, noticing how she'd gone white in the middle of her sentence. Ghostly pale, in fact.

"Finished what?" he dared to ask, despite assuming he knew the answer.

Christine wrung her hands and averted her eyes. She didn't need to say a word—Raoul already knew who was on her mind and why. Frowning, the vicomte started to reach for her hand but stopped himself. He wanted to tell Christine she didn't need that monster to guide her. That beast in the shadows, lurking always in the dark, held no sway over her career.

Christine needed no further guidance with her singing. She had the voice of an angel…she _was _the angel of music, not that man, that _Erik. _For God's sake, he lived five levels beneath the opera house, hidden away within his perverse kingdom.

Turning his face away, Raoul took a breath and harnessed his sudden flair of anger.

Erik was gone and there was no reason to hate a dead man. If anything, Raoul knew he should have pitied him for the miserable life he'd led, if his existence could even be considered a life.

"Christine," he said quietly. "You are perfect. On opening night, everyone in Paris will see just how far you've come on your own."

Her head snapped up and she stared at him, her dark eyes wide and lips parted. "On my own?" she whispered, sounding horrified by the notion.

Raoul swallowed. "With your own God-given talent," he assured her, careful to make no mention of that hideous man. "And I'll be with you 555555555every step of the way. I swear to you, Christine. On my life."

"Raoul—"

"Nothing will stand between us," he promised as he reached for her hand and squeezed her delicate fingers. "I'll make certain."

Christine offered a faint smile, which did nothing to confirm his statement. She remained distant despite sitting only a seat away, silent despite the sincerity of his words.

Raoul sat back and folded his hands. He was losing her—and he didn't know why.


	27. A Dangerous Game

Meg stood outside the theater wringing her hands as the throng of actors and musicians turned into a trickle of denizens leisurely strolling along the Parisian streets. The musty smell of the New Parisian was replaced by the strong smell of coffee and carriage horses lined up on the other side of the street.

She already knew Erik would be one of the last people to exit the theater. He would linger behind as to avoid the crowds, slipping quietly from the auditorium to her side when he deemed it fit to make his escape from the confines and join the rest of Paris.

The longer Meg stood alone, the more she wished she had spoken to him regarding a plan. She was tired and anxious, especially after seeing Raoul de Chagny.

After everything that had transpired, Meg hadn't expected to ever see the wealthy aristocrat ever again, especially within a theater. Following the fire and all the uproar in the newspapers, she expected he would stay as far away as possible.

Naturally, Meg wondered if Erik was delayed because he had spotted the Vicomte in the theater—and she hoped he wouldn't do anything foolish.

Dread threatened to consume her as she realized what a disaster a chance meeting between the two would cause. She doubted Erik would simply walk away from the Vicomte and of course Monsieur de Chagny would want to defend his fiancé.

Meg held her breath, the threat of tears barely held at bay. Erik had wanted her to swear she would protect herself and her mother should he be recognized. Once she stood on the stage and looked into the orchestra pit at him, she understood his love of music and the sacrifice he would make for his art.

He had fallen further and harder than anyone Meg had ever known. Seeing him within an abandoned building, lacking all hope all sense of worth

Erik was hardly a man who merely knew how to play the piano. For him, music was not a way to earn an income or simple entertainment. This man she had ridiculed and feared in the past had shown an intimate and passionate side to himself. He played the piano effortlessly, his body relaxed, his demeanor much different than she'd seen before. After all the years he had spent hiding himself, seated within the theater—and playing before a crowd of other musicians and actors—he seemed at home. For once, the man who had been a ghost to her seemed as though he were at ease not only with himself, but in the presence of others.

Meg wanted to be happy for him, but the longer he took to exit onto the street, the more she worried about him. Perhaps the Vicomte had spotted a man in bandages and had Erik apprehended. Perhaps Erik had seen his worst enemy and had fled the theater, afraid being seen at her side would condemn her.

"Mademoiselle?" a gentleman called out. "Are you well?"

Meg turned to find an unfamiliar young man in a brown suit and matching hat lingering beside her.

"I'm waiting for someone," she explained.

The man shrugged. "Shall I wait with you?" he offered.

She shook her head. "That isn't necessary."

His blue eyes turned from cheerful to sullen. "As you wish, Mademoiselle…Beadeau?"

Meg nearly forgot her faux persona. "Yes," she stammered. "I apologize, were you auditioning today?" she asked out of fear of being rude.

The young man removed his hat, revealing waves of dark blond hair. "Clearly I failed to make an impression on you," he said.

Meg felt herself blush. "I…I…" she stuttered.

Her unnamed fellow performer grinned and placed his hat on his head. "Good day to you, Mademoiselle. I hope to see you tomorrow."

Before she could say another word, the man turned on his heel and continued down the street without so much as looking back. Flustered, Meg patted her burning cheeks and took a breath.

"There you are," she heard Erik's deep, resonating voice say from behind her.

Turning quickly, she watched him stride toward her with his head tilted down and shoulders hunched. The bandages covering his hands appeared looser than when she'd last seen him, which alarmed her. Now, in broad daylight, was a perilous time for his disguise to unravel.

"Where have you been?" she questioned, forgetting her brief moment of breathless abandon now that she saw Erik again.

"Waiting," he answered without meeting her eye.

Meg studied him briefly and thought he seemed more distant again, which piqued her curiosity and increased her dread. He stood within arm's reach and met her gaze at last.

"Mademoiselle?" Erik questioned once he caught her staring.

"Did you see him?" Meg blurted out.

Erik's eye narrowed ever so slightly, his lips twitching with silent understanding. Clearing his throat, he looked away from her. "Did I see who?" he asked, his tone noticeably more gruff than before.

"The Vicomte de Chagny," she said with a huff, refusing to play his games. "The person responsible for this very theater."

The composer worked his jaw in silence, his gaze hardened, mouth forming a scowl. She assumed Erik cursed the Vicomte for meddling in the theater with his talentless, aristocratic hands.

"I did not see him," he answered at last, his words spoken without a hint of truth.

The concern she had felt for his plight dwindled. Meg wasn't sure if it was real or her imagination, but the air felt suddenly colder, the bright sunlight turned into a noticeable haze. The slightest of misteps and Erik would be back where he had started-or worse.

"She's here as well," Meg added with a hint of anger in her voice.

Just as she expected, Erik didn't bother to look at her. He appeared more sullen than before and Meg wondered if he regretted his past or if he foolishly attempted to plan a future. His posture seemed more rigid, his hands balled into tight fists, his leather gloves. His gaze flickered across the street as though he expected to see someone—or for someone to notice him.

"You saw her," Meg stated, growing more impatient by the moment. There was absolutely no reason to pose the question as she already knew the answer. She assumed by the way Erik avoided her gaze, the way he suddenly seemed more concerned with his surroundings, that he had done more than just see Christine from afar.

"Erik," Meg said sharply when he offered no reply. "What are you doing?"

He pinned his gaze on her. Green eyes, harsh and unforgiving as a fierce animal, bore into her. For a long moment he said nothing, but his silence proved louder than his voice.

Meg remembered those eyes glaring down from the wings. She would see a mere glimpse of the Phantom and wonder if he was truly in the shadows or if her imagination ran wild. The whispers and shrieks from the other dancers was enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

For so many years he had answered to no one but himself. He had ruled the theater, a tyrant demanding funds and threatening to wreck havoc on the managers if his demands were not met. He'd never had outlandish requests, but the manager had always done as instructed and Erik, Meg knew, was accustomed to doing as he pleased.

The ghost she thought had finally faded seemed resurrected once more. By the look in his eyes, Meg wasn't sure the ghost would ever be gone.

But perhaps the phantom he'd been in the past was not completely returned, she realized. Here in broad daylight, he was not a ghost hiding behind his facade. As much as Erik held fast to his anger, Meg could still see he was just a man bound to his frustration, which made him more human than he could have realized.

"You refuse to speak?" Meg challenged. "Do you know what could happen? Do you know where you would end up if you continue this foolishness? This is a very dangerous game you're playing," she admonished.

"Meg Giry," he said tightly as he stood over her. "I am fully aware of the consequences," he assured her, biting off each word. "And this is not a game."


End file.
